by Dahlia West
Rowan couldn’t tell if he really was waiting outside the door or had moved away entirely. She turned back to the old man, and she could practically see the fog lift from his beer-battered brain as he realized he was in serious trouble.
Wyoming had made drunk driving illegal, finally, in 2007. Apparently this guy hadn’t gotten the memo. Or perhaps he was too far gone, too set in his bad habits to ever change them now. Rowan guessed this wasn’t his first brush with the law.
He cast about wildly, gaze landing on the door on the other side of the room. “Gotta…go,” he half-whispered as he eyed the exit, which was not really an exit at all. It just led to a shared supply room.
“Sit down!” Rowan ordered. “Or I’ll get out the restraints and tie you down.”
The man reared back and eyed her warily.
Rowan might have been slight of frame, but she knew how to use her voice and demeanor to take charge of any given situation. It was a lesson well learned in nursing school, and she resorted to it often, though she had to admit that right this moment her temper was getting the better of her.
She’d do her job, to the best of her ability, and that included minimal distractions. But he was for damn sure going to jail tonight after she patched him up, even if she had to drive him there herself, which she hoped she didn’t, because she didn’t want beer-stank and vomit in her car.
Maybe it was from raising Willow mostly alone, with only one set of eyes to watch her, doubly vigilant, doubly careful, always worried that one parent wasn’t enough. But seeing that little girl with the bleeding arm, looking so much like Willow, triggered every hot button Rowan had. “I don’t know what’s wrong with people like you,” she said, because she was tired and because it was true. “You could’ve killed that whole family. If you want to die, drink yourself to death in front of the television. Don’t take anyone else with you.”
His face crumpled, and Rowan knew she’d gone too far, said too much. When he started to cry, with long trails of saliva dripping from his lower lip, she handed him a paper towel by way of apology.
She had to get off nights. She just wasn’t herself. Or perhaps she was too much herself, a distilled version of the practicality and hardheadedness that had gotten them, herself and her daughter, this far in life, without any handouts. There was no point in taking any of it out on this man. It looked as though he was in for a rough ride anyway when Rowan was done with him.
He deserved it, but she didn’t have to be cruel about it.
She finished picking glass out of the man’s forehead and applied antibiotic ointment to the tiny wounds. When she was done, she pushed her stool away from him, mostly to get away from the smell, picked up his chart, and stepped out into the hall to mark her progress.
The officer wasn’t there, but the sound of shoes on the floor made Rowan look up. Sandy ducked into Exam Room One, the room Rowan had just vacated. She heard the sounds of complaint wafting through the air in slurred but muffled English. Sandy stepped back, closing the door again without comment, and searched the hall until her hard gaze landed on Rowan.
Shit, Rowan muttered to herself.
As the head nurse started toward her, Rowan knew from Sandy’s quick pace and stiff spine that she was in trouble. The drunk driver had ratted her out for her unprofessional behavior. There’d be a warning, hopefully just verbal—hopefully Sandy wouldn’t chart it in Rowan’s personnel file. Fat chance. Sandy charted every sneeze.
As the older woman approached, though, she looked pained, and Rowan wondered if she was in more trouble than she thought. She racked her brain trying to think what else she could’ve done—even with her crazy schedule of day care and babysitters she was never late, hardly ever called in sick.
Her stomach roiled, much like the driver’s, as she looked down at the paperwork in her hand. A chart. She’d screwed up a chart because she was tired. Patients died that way. It happened more often than it should have in nursing. It should never happen at all. Judging by the look on Sandy’s face, the determined line of the woman’s thin lips, this was bad.
“Was it—?” Rowan couldn’t think who she’d dispensed meds to tonight. Which cases? Which drugs? Nothing had required a second key. Nothing had needed secondary approval. Nothing was fatal, even in incorrect doses. “Was it—?”
“It’s your father, Rowan,” Sandy told her grimly.
Rowan’s mouth froze, half-open. She was wide awake now, adrenaline coursing through her.
“Your sister called. Rowan, he’s had a heart attack. He’s at the medical center in Star Valley. They’re prepping him for surgery.”
Rowan’s head swam. “How bad is it?” she demanded. “Have they already given thrombolytics? Are they—?”
“I don’t know.”
Rowan glared at her.
“I’m not lying. Your sister didn’t know. They only just wheeled him in a few minutes ago. Rowan, I’m sorry.”
Rowan passed Sandy the chart and the pen with her shaking hand. It dropped on the floor with a clatter and rolled away on the slightly uneven tile. “I have to go,” she declared.
Sandy was already nodding.
Rowan darted down the hall, not bothering to clock out. She passed the rattled family from the vehicle accident, huddled together in the corner looking worn and confused. She felt a kinship toward them, as late night visits to the emergency room so often did to people. This time, though, she was on the wrong side—not giving news but getting it—and having nothing but unanswered questions to show for it.
The drive to her apartment was quick and easy this time of night. She gunned the engine into the empty spot closest to her door, spinning her tires on the unsalted slush. She managed to bring the whole thing to a stop just before she hit the curb and jumped out while the whole car was shaking.
Moira gave a small cry and leapt off the couch as Rowan burst through the door, keys in hand, fighting back tears.
“I’m sorry!” Rowan gasped. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”
“Oh my God! What’s wrong?”
Rowan had to pull herself together, relying on her training to keep herself calm as she explained the situation to the twenty-year-old babysitter.
Moira understood right away and began gathering her things to leave early.
Rowan pulled out her wallet and frowned at its meager contents. Normally she paid the girl on Fridays, but she doubted that they’d be home by the end of the week. She didn’t want to owe the woman money. Rowan had been broke too many times herself. Stifling a sigh, she pulled some bills out and offered them.
Moira took them with a rueful smile and the uncomfortable gratitude that came when one poor person paid another out of pocket.
Rowan tried not to think about the cost of the unexpected trip. She showed Moira out and headed straight to her bedroom, where she drew out her tattered suitcase and laid it on the bed. In went jeans and sweaters, haphazard, unfolded. She shoved her toothbrush in the side pocket then stared at the bulging container. Without realizing, she’d packed almost all her clothes. She didn’t have that many.
She stuffed Willow’s clean clothes from the laundry basket into the worn pink Disney Princess backpack and loaded it all into the car, letting the little girl sleep as long as possible. Then, for one brief moment in all the chaos, Rowan stood at the front of her almost-five-year-old’s bed, watching her sleep peacefully.
She wished for the millionth time that she had family in Cheyenne, a place to leave Willow so the little girl wouldn’t be subjected to all this. But that had been the point in coming to Cheyenne, that no one would know them. And though it was still Wyoming, and Rowan got the occasional side eye for being a single mother, tongues wagged less in Cheyenne than in Star Valley.
In four years, Rowan had managed to keep her trips back to the farm restricted to summer vacation and Christmas (if the weather was good). Willow loved the farm but had never been into town.
With everything falling apart around them, she hoped to God she
could keep the girl hidden away.
Rowan finally roused her with a gentle shake. “Baby,” she said quietly. “Baby, wake up.”
Willow groaned and turned away.
“Sweetie, you have to get up,” Rowan insisted. “We have to go.”
The little girl opened her eyes and squinted. “Mama,” she protested. “It’s dark out.”
“I know, baby,” said Rowan, lifting Willow up. “But we have to go. We have to get you dressed then get in the car.”
Willow’s nose wrinkled as though the idea of trudging outside, in the cold, and the dark, was distasteful.
Rowan agreed.
The car was already warmed up by the time she put Willow in her booster seat. The little girl gazed up at her with soulful brown eyes that haunted Rowan sometimes, though she tried never to show it. “Where are we going, Mama?”
“To the farm, baby.”
Willow’s eyes lit up. “To the farm? With Kinka? And Pop-Pop?”
Rowan hesitated, not knowing what to say. “Yes,” she finally replied. “To the farm.” She figured that was enough for now.
The drive was long and Rowan was forced to white-knuckle it all the way along the highway that had once been dubbed the Snow Chi Minh Trail. Drift fences had reduced the danger of icy conditions these days, but Rowan was still on constant watch for antelope, which despite their diminutive size could create an unbelievable amount of damage when hitting one with a car. Driving at night on the near-deserted roads of Wyoming’s open country was never easy or recommended. The only people on the road this late at night were long-haul truckers, and even they were few and far between.
Rowan stayed under the speed limit, stopping for gas in Laramie, then again in Rock Springs, just to get a Coke and keep herself awake and racking up the credit card she’d worked so hard to pay off just last fall. Willow was bundled up and under her favorite Dora the Explorer blanket, so Rowan rolled the driver’s-side window down and let the cold night air keep her alert.
They reached the medical center a little before noon, and Rowan slid her Toyota into the space closest to the ER doors that wasn’t handicapped. She unbelted Willow, hoisted the little girl onto her shoulder, and hurried along the sidewalk.
As the glass doors whispered shut behind her, she instinctively tugged down Willow’s hood, covering her sleeping daughter’s face as she carried her inside. She located the lobby’s small reception desk and headed straight for it, identification badge in hand. “Mac Archer,” she said as she slid it across the counter.
The badge worked as well as any enchanted talisman, gaining Rowan access to her father’s chart and intake information. The duty nurse handed it back with a matter-of-fact nod. “Paul Renner is in with him, prepping him for the surgery.”
“Paul Renner?” Rowan’s eyebrows lifted.
“He’s the anesthesiologist on duty.”
Rowan blinked at the woman. It was odd to hear of an old classmate being a specialist, and an anesthesiologist no less, though she supposed if she’d been able to attend nursing school full-time from start to finish, she’d be further along in her own career by now. Paul Renner, though? Wow. Rowan had a vivid memory of Paul and a beer bong senior year. Honestly, though, she hadn’t been too much better, and she considered herself a decent nurse–when she wasn’t yelling at drunks.
“Paul Renner?” she repeated, hoping she didn’t reveal too much of her trepidation. Beggars, after all, couldn’t be choosers. She was grateful that a surgeon had even been on shift so as not to waste precious minutes life-lining him to Cheyenne or Denver.
“He’s good,” the nurse assured her.
Rowan nodded, taking the endorsement as gospel. She had no other choice. She was about to ask after Emma, if her sister had been given a quiet room to wait, when behind her someone called her name.
Troy, Emma’s husband, came toward her, two coffees in hand.
Rowan sighed in relief at seeing a friendly face. He led her to a small room, where Emma, eyes puffy and hair uncombed, grabbed her into a fierce hug, nearly crushing Willow between them.
Rowan finally stepped back and laid the girl down on a threadbare sofa, gratefully taking Troy’s offered coffee. He excused himself to get a replacement.
As the door closed behind him, Emma threw up her hands. “Five hours!” Rowan’s older sister explained, prompting Rowan to shush her for Willow’s sake.
Emma ducked her head guiltily, still incensed, though. “Five hours he laid in bed, thinking he pulled a muscle in his shoulder! Unbelievable! And who does he call then? Me! Not an ambulance. Not Dr. Webber. Me!”
Rowan grimaced. Their father was a master at ignoring the sometimes painfully obvious until it just went away.
“You look terrible,” Emma said suddenly.
Rowan heaved a sigh and rubbed her neck. “I was on night shift when I got your message.”
“You should go get some rest,” Emma declared.
“I was about to say the same to you. It’ll be hours before he’s out,” Rowan told her, glancing nervously at the door. “But someone should stay. In case.”
“In case he doesn’t make it,” Emma added grimly.
“Don’t say that!” Rowan snapped.
It was Emma’s turn to hush her. Willow stirred anyway, almost opened her eyes, but went back to snoring softly.
Emma sighed. “You two are so alike,” she said while gazing at her niece.
Rowan frowned, knowing Emma didn’t mean Willow. As a nurse, Rowan was practical about a lot of things, but not her family. She missed them too much. Living in Cheyenne felt too much like self-imposed exile, which was exactly what it was, if she was being honest. The thought of losing one of them, after having been away so long and having missed them so terribly, was too much to take.
“I’m sorry,” said Emma before Rowan could argue. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
The two of them sank down into chairs and sipped their coffees in silence. The rush of adrenaline that had carried Rowan this far dissipated quickly. Now a dull buzzing was growing behind her eyes, and she was struggling to keep them open.
Almost three hours later, the door opened (it must have been for the second time, because Troy was in the room and Rowan hadn’t heard him come in). Paul Renner was standing before them, looking almost exactly like he had in high school, but now with blond hair that was thinning a little on top. He smiled at her, though, and Rowan took it for a good sign as she hauled herself out of her chair.
She listened intently, translating for Troy and Emma as Paul told them it was a double bypass and that the surgeon was reasonably pleased with the results. There was a slight blockage in a third artery, and they’d go in for an angioplasty in a few weeks rather than take more veins out of his legs for the graft. Dad was still out from the anesthesia, but his blood pressure and heart rate were encouraging.
Rowan said a silent prayer of thanks that the beer bong hadn’t taken Paul’s last few brain cells. The duty nurse had been right—he seemed to be sharp, with a good head on his shoulders. Rowan shook his hand before he walked out the door. He looked like he might say something, about high school, or old times, but given the circumstances, he must’ve thought better of it.
He left after explaining the nurses were checking Dad into his room.
“I’m tired,” Emma declared then looked at Rowan. “Go home. Get some rest.”
“I think you have that backwards.”
But Emma shook her head. “No, you go,” she insisted, nodding to Willow. “This is no place to rest, even for a kid. Take her to the house, take a nap, both of you. I’ll come around in a few hours and we can swap.”
Rowan wanted to argue. As a sometimes-night-shift nurse she was far more used to long stretches of wakefulness than Emma, but the drive had been long, and she was close to stretching out on the tile floor and shutting the world out. “Okay,” she finally relented, gathering Willow in her arms. She was more than grateful to be offered a few hours’ worth of s
leep, even if she wasn’t entirely certain she could relax enough to take advantage of it.
She could check on the sheep, too, and get them their feed. She tugged the hood down over Willow’s face and hurried back out the hospital doors. There was nothing she could do here at the moment, so it made more sense to go where she could be the most useful.
Chapter Three
‡
Seth passed through the sparse trees that lined the river and headed toward the Point to meet-up with the others. When he arrived to find no one, he fished out his hand-held and tried to raise Gabe.
“I haven’t heard from him,” came back Austin’s static-cracked voice.
They all used the same channel.
“They might—” Seth heard, but the wind took the rest.
“What? I didn’t get that.” The steady hum of the hand-held was all Seth got in response for a moment.
“—said maybe they found the eastern group,” Austin repeated.
Seth held down the slick, black plastic button. “Could be,” he replied, almost crossing his fingers. “That’d slow them down.”
Court, Austin, and Gabe were under orders to take the long way around, not stray from the trail, but keep an eye out for the group they’d split off before the storm. If they found them, they’d drive them to the Point to join with the other cattle they’d left down in the Gulch.
Seth watched the horizon, hardly daring to breathe. He hated waiting. He hated wondering. All that was left to do was hope that his brothers and Gabe had found the group.
And that the cattle were alive.
And that they hadn’t run into trouble at the river the way Walker, Austin, and Seth had.
That was a lot of things to hope for.
Maybe too many.
He waited nearly an hour, alone in the biting wind, and was about to give up and head east to try to spot them when he finally saw the shape of a rider rise over a far hill. It was Gabe, Seth noted, or rather Azteca he recognized first. The paint horse was striking against any landscape, clearly the result of Dakota’s (Gabe’s younger sister’s) most successful breedings. Behind him, a slow-moving group of cattle started to appear over the horizon.
