Wild Mustang Man

by Carol Grace

  She shook her head and smiled through her unshed tears. “Okay. I’ve said my piece. I know it’s none of my business, so I’ll shut up now. But if I were you...” He saw her look across the lawn to where Bridget was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Max.

  “I get the message,” he said quickly. He felt torn up inside. As if the emotions he’d kept under wraps these past two years had been stirred up, and he was left feeling unsure of how he really felt. About anything.

  From his spot under the tree, he watched his father open his presents. Bridget gave him a silver belt buckle she’d bought at the general store in town. His father was surprised and tickled.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” his father told her, holding it up for everyone to see. Josh could tell how pleased he was by the glint in his eye and the way his father glanced pointedly at him as if he was saying, Look, did you see that? See what she gave me? See how well she fits in?

  His sisters left early with their families for the long drive back to Reno. Nothing more was said about his future, but Martha, always the emotional one, hugged him tightly before she left. Other guests made jokes on their way out the door about his being the Wild Mustang Man. It didn’t bother him the way he thought it would. In fact, some of the jokes were downright funny. By evening he realized he’d laughed more that day than he had in two years.

  He said goodbye to his parents and got last-minute instructions on caring for their animals while they were in San Francisco that week. Then he looked for Bridget. She was out at the driveway with Max, kneeling next to him, with her hand on his forehead.

  She looked up when she heard Josh approach. “His head is so warm. I wonder if he has a fever.”

  Josh ran to his side and lifted Max into his arms. His son felt warm all over. Max was never sick. Maybe a cold or a sore throat, but nothing like this. Oh, God, don’t let him be sick, he prayed. He carried Max to his truck and set him in the front seat. His head drooped. His chin hit his chest. He slouched over in the seat, unable to sit up straight. “I’ll get him home to bed, take his temperature and call the doc if necessary,” Josh told her, trying to sound like he wasn’t scared out of his mind.

  Then he leaped into the driver’s seat and drove home, his palms sweaty against the steering wheel. He watched Max out of the corner of his eye, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He forced himself to stay calm, telling himself Max would be okay. But the memories came flooding back of that day two years ago when his life fell apart.

  He got the boy undressed, sponged the dirt off his face and put him to bed. His temperature was 102. Not high for a child. But all he could think of was Molly. This was how it started, with a moderate fever. Then it rose and rose. And in a few days the galloping virus had taken her life. In the days, weeks and months that had followed, he’d dreaded getting out of bed in the morning. If it hadn’t been for Max, if Max hadn’t needed him, he would have stayed in bed, hiding from the world. Max was all he had left. If he lost his son as well as his wife he wouldn’t want to live.

  “Dad,” Max said hoarsely, trying to sit up. “Would you feed Barney for me?”

  Josh’s throat tightened painfully as he assured him he would. Imagine a five-year-old thinking about his pet when he couldn’t even hold his head up. He gave Max a drink of water, tucked him in and went downstairs to call the doctor and leave a message for him.

  As long as he was busy, feeding the rat, making the phone call, Josh was okay. But standing there in Max’s room, watching him toss and turn, his heart ached with worry and apprehension. He clenched his hands into fists, vowing nothing bad would happen to his son.

  After an eternity of waiting, the doctor finally called around midnight, explaining he’d been out delivering a baby in the next county. When Josh described Max’s symptoms, the doctor told him to observe him and call in the morning.

  “Keep the fluids going. Make him comfortable. Children’s ibuprofen would be okay. But it’s probably nothing.”

  Nothing. It was probably nothing, Josh told himself over and over. But he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t sleep. He sat next to Max’s bed all night watching him sleep, listening to him mumble and thrash around.

  In the morning Max’s temperature had risen two degrees. His face was flushed and he was almost delirious. Josh gave him apple juice and a pill and called the doctor again.

  “You’ve got to get out here. He’s sick. Really sick.”

  “Now, Josh, I’ll be out there as soon as I can. Any rash?”

  “Rash? Why?”

  “Check his chest?”

  “Hold on.”

  Max’s chest and stomach were covered with tiny red dots. He was scratching like mad. Josh ran back to the phone to report the news.

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I figured.”

  “What?”

  “Chicken pox. It’s going around.”

  “Oh, my God.” Josh heaved a sigh of relief.

  “You had ‘em?”

  “Yeah. It’s all coming back to me. I was home from school for two weeks in second grade. I caught them from my sisters. And gave them to my best friend. Itched like the devil. Poor kid,” he said thinking of Max being confined for any length of time. He’d hate it. “You’ll come by, anyway?” he asked.

  “Right. Just to be sure. I have another patient out your way. See you in a while.”

  Josh did everything but stand on his head to amuse Max and keep his mind off the itching. He read books, or rather the same book about a little girl with a big red dog, over and over. He played a board game, which he lost, then a card game called Go Fish, which he won. By ten o’clock he was exhausted. He’d had no sleep and hadn’t fed his animals or his father’s.

  When the phone rang, he brought it into Max’s room.

  “I called to see how Max was,” Bridget said.

  Just the sound of her voice chased the cobwebs from his mind. Made him feel like he wasn’t alone.

  “He’s got a temperature of 104. A rash all over his chest. And he’s a bear to be around,” he said, making a fierce face at Max who stuck out his tongue at his father. “The good news is the doctor thinks it’s only chicken pox.”

  “Of course. I remember when I had them. The itching was terrible. Poor kid.”

  Josh smiled. “That’s what I said. At first. Now that I’ve been entertaining him for the past three hours I’m changing that to poor me.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Could you help? I couldn’t ask you...”

  “Is that Bridget?” Max asked. “Gimme the phone. I wanna talk to her.”

  Josh handed the phone to Max. “I’m sick. Can you come and see me?” he asked in a small weak voice.

  Josh couldn’t hear what she said, but he couldn’t imagine her saying no. Max handed the phone back to his father, fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

  “I can come out right away, that is if you want me.”

  Did he want her? Did birds fly south in the winter? But it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right to drag her into his problems. He should have said No thanks. He should have insisted he could handle it by himself. And he could. But he didn’t want to.

  “I want you,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse and rough. He could blame his lack of willpower on his lack of sleep, or his concern about Max, or his need to have someone to share the burden. But it went deeper than that. How deep he didn’t know. He only knew she was coming and that he was more relieved than he wanted to admit.

  Chapter Six

  The doctor came, confirmed Max had chicken pox, gave him some ointment to ease the itching and left. Max slept, while Josh paced back and forth in front of the living room window watching and waiting for Bridget. When he saw her car coming up the driveway, he threw the door open and went outside. She’d barely stopped her car when he was there, opening her car door for her, barely waiting for her to emerge before he’d crushed her to him.

  He chalked it up to fatigue and worry. H
e was just so glad to see her. To hold her. To feel her heart beating, sure and steady. He wanted to kiss her, to mold her body to his, to give her whatever she wanted, to take whatever she would give. But there was Max. So before he lost his head completely, he gripped her shoulders and muttered hoarsely, “Thanks for coming.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide and startled, seemingly at a loss for words. Not like her. Not like her, at all. They went into the house, and she followed him silently down the hall to Max’s room. They stood at his bedside, watching him sleep. He wanted to put his arm around her, to pull her hip next to his, press her shoulder against his. But he didn’t. He kept his arms at his side. It wouldn’t be right. Wouldn’t be fair. Because what he wanted was someone to share his problems with, to worry with him, to tell him what he already knew. That Max was going to be okay.

  She couldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair to ask her. She deserved more than that. She deserved someone to share the good times and not be dragged down into someone else’s worries. She bent over and laid her hand on Max’s forehead.

  “Oh, my gosh,” she said. “He’s warm. How does he feel?”

  “Uncomfortable. Itchy. Unhappy. He’ll be glad to see you when he wakes up.”

  “I brought some stuff for him,” she said setting a shopping bag on the floor next to his bed. “I’ll wait here till he opens his eyes. Go ahead, take a break. Don’t you have things to do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  She shook her head. “The film crew was scheduled to come here this week, but when I heard about Max I postponed it.”

  “I’ll go feed my horses, then, if you’re sure you’ll be all right.”

  Bridget nodded. She heard the back door close behind Josh, and she looked out Max’s bedroom window to watch him stride purposefully across the field toward the barn. So tall, so strong, so sure of himself. And yet this morning when he took her in his arms, and she felt his heart beat against hers, she felt for the first time that she had something to offer him. She had a fleeting feeling that he needed her. It only lasted for a moment And it was only because Max was sick and he had to go outside to do his chores. She wished it was more than that. She wished she had something she could give him. Something besides sympathy, understanding and comfort. Those he would accept. But what about love? Would he accept love? Not from her.

  Too restless to sit at Max’s bedside and watch him sleep, she picked up a dozen toy cars from the floor and put them in a plastic container where they joined many other miniature cars and trucks. She stashed a pile of dirty T-shirts and blue jeans in a basket in his closet Then she walked around the room, looking at the pictures Max had pinned to his bulletin board, crayon drawings he’d made of motorcycles, pictures he’d cut from magazines of dinosaurs and a photograph of him with his mother and father.

  Bridget studied the photo, noting that Max’s smile matched his mother’s smile, and his blue eyes were the same color as his father’s. She felt the warmth radiating from the picture and sensed their love for each other. Envy and longing filled her heart And jealousy—a most unbecoming emotion. And despair. Would she ever be a part of a family like that? The answer was No, never.

  She moved on to his bookcase. Peered into the rat’s cage but didn’t see Barney. She wasn’t sure she wanted to look into his beady eyes. She knew she didn’t want to feel his sharp little claws on her hand. Not this morning. Not before lunch. Under the cage were Max’s books. Books about animals, books about monsters and goblins. Some books she remembered from her own childhood and some she didn’t She picked out one she’d always loved and sat down in the chair next to his bed to read his book.

  “Bridget,” he mumbled, startling her out of her reverie. In his excitement to see her he sat up too quickly, had a dizzy spell and fell back down on his pillow. “You came. I knew you’d come.”

  “How are you?” she asked, putting her arms around his feverish little body.

  “I’m too hot,” he complained, trying to push the blankets off his bed.

  Gently she tucked them around him again. “I brought you something to drink.” She reached in her bag for a can of ginger ale, popped it open, stuck a straw in it and handed it to him.

  “The bubbles tickle my nose,” he said after he’d taken a big gulp. She set the can on his bedside table. “I got chicken pox,” he said proudly.

  “I know. I had them once myself. When I was about your age.”

  “What did you look like?” he asked.

  “I guess I looked pretty funny with red dots all over me, just like you.”

  “I mean what did you look like when you were a little girl?”

  “Oh. Well, I had bangs, like this.” She drew a straight line across her forehead. “And short hair, about to here.” She pointed to her jawbone.

  “But you didn’t have a bike, did you?”

  “No. We lived in the city, and there was no place for me to ride. Are you going to teach me to ride when you get well?”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his chest “When am I gonna get well?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a week or two.” She held up the book she’d chosen. “How would you like me to read you a story?”

  He shook his head. “I already heard that one.”

  “Okay, how about something else?” She reached into her shopping bag and brought out a white sock which she put on her hand. “I brought a friend with me.”

  “Looks like a sock.”

  “It is a sock, but I’m going to make a puppet out of it.” She drew a red mouth and blue eyes with felt-tip pens, so it looked like the sock had a face. “Hi, little boy.” she said moving her hand so it looked like the sock was talking.

  He grabbed her hand and held it. “I’m not little,” he told the sock.

  “Sorry. Big boy. My name is Bridget.” She bobbed the puppet’s head. “I need a friend to play with.”

  She took out another sock and made a hand puppet for Max. He moved his hand around inside the sock.

  “I got a lot of friends,” he said, “but I don’t got a mom.”

  “Me either,” she said. “My mom’s in heaven too, Max.”

  “Do you miss her?” he asked, laying his hand with the sock on it down on the bed.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “I don’t have it with me. But sometime I’ll show it to you.”

  “Did she look like you? People say I look like my mom.”

  Max didn’t look up. Bridget didn’t turn around, but she was suddenly aware that they weren’t alone in the room. Josh was in the doorway, or just outside the door. She couldn’t see him there, but she felt his presence just as surely as if he’d touched her with his hand.

  “Do you remember your mom?” Max asked.

  “Yes,” Bridget said with a catch in her voice.

  “I don’t remember mine.”

  Bridget took the sock off her hand and soothed his brow with her hand. “I remember lots of things, but right now I’m remembering once when I was little and my mom took me to get my first pair of fancy shoes. I might have been about five or six. They were black patent-leather with one strap. Here.” She drew a line across her foot. “Anyway, I loved those shoes so much. I felt like a princess in those shoes. I didn’t want to take them off. I wanted to wear them home. But my mother said I might scuff them or something, so we carried them home in a box.”

  Max’s eyes drifted shut. His head fell back onto the pillow. “You’re as beautiful as a princess, Bridget,” he muttered, and then he fell asleep.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him sleep. Josh came up behind her and put his hand on the nape of her neck. Tremors went up and down her spine. She reached for his hand and held it tight, fighting back tears for a sick little boy who couldn’t remember his mother.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb Max, she got up off the bed. When she met Josh’s gaze, she saw such sadness there she wanted to tell him he was a good father, a great father. That he’d
done a fantastic job with his son. That it was normal for Max to have a hard time remembering his mother. He’d been so young when she died. But she knew instinctively it was not her place to say these things.

  She followed Josh silently down the stairs into the kitchen where he poured them each a cup of coffee. “Did you get anything done?” she asked lightly.

  “Yes, thanks to you.” He gave her a long look. “You look tired. Even when Max’s sick, he can run the average adult ragged. How on earth do you know what to say to him, what to do with him? Where did you get that magic touch of yours?” He reached for her hand and pressed her palm to his lips.

  His mouth was warm, so warm his lips seared her palm. She took a step backward until she hit the refrigerator. His gaze held hers for a long, breathless moment. She had begun to think those sizzling kisses they’d shared had been a fantasy. Until now. Until something flared in his eyes, something she’d never seen before. She’d expected gratitude. It wasn’t gratitude. She didn’t want gratitude. She didn’t know what she wanted until it happened. Until he took her hands and pinned her against the gleaming white refrigerator.

  She was trapped. With the smell of coffee in the air and the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, she saw the desire in his dazzling blue gaze. White-hot desire that matched her own. He bent his head, but before he kissed her he said, “He’s right, you are beautiful.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “So beautiful.”