by Linda Turner
"Oh, God, I'm sorry! I didn't sleep much last night and it's starting to catch up with me. How's Chloe? And Clara?"
"Resting as comfortably as possible," Josey assured her.
"The fever seems to have dropped off for the moment, so the main concern is dehydration. Get as many fluids down them as possible, preferably grape juice if you've got it. There's something in it that attacks bugs like this, and even if it comes back up, the body retains more than you think. It wouldn't hurt you to drink a few glasses yourself. "
Reaching into her black bag, she handed Becca a small bottle of medication.
"This will help with the nausea, but in some cases, it's better to just let patients get the bug out of their system. So try to hold off giving this unless the vomiting really gets worse. And don't hesitate to call the clinic if you need help. Tate will be there all night. She can track me down if you need me to stop by again later."
Unable to take so much as ten minutes for herself, Josey was gone as quickly as she'd arrived, and once again Becca was left to handle the crises alone. Knowing she had the nausea medication close at hand was infinitely reassuring, though she didn't, thankfully, have to use it.
After several cautious sips of grape juice, both patients dropped off into a restless sleep, and for a while, at least, Becca was able to relax. Sitting at the kitchen table, she poured herself a bracing glass of grape juice and drained it. She wouldn't do anyone any good if she got sick herself.
When the phone rang suddenly, the jarring sound ripping through the quiet of the night, she knew it meant trouble. No one called after midnight for anything else.
"Hello?"
"Becca?"
Alarmed, she tightened her grip on the phone and pressed it closer to her ear as she realized the faint voice on the other end of the line was Lucille's. In all the months she'd known her, she'd never heard her neighbor speak with anything less than gruff confidence, but she definitely sounded shaky now.
"Lucille? What's wrong? I can hardly hear you."
"I think I've got Clara's stupid crud," the woman whispered in disgust.
"I've been tossing my cookies for the last hour."
If the situation hadn't been so miserable, Becca would have laughed.
"Dr. Rawbrigs was here a couple of hours ago and said to take grape juice. It's supposed to help. Have you got any?"
"No." She started to say more, but then she groaned and the receiver clattered down in its cradle.
Worried, Becca had hardly hung up when the phone rang again and Margaret, sounding as bad as Lucille, said, "Hullo? Becca?"
Her worst fears realized, Becca paled.
"Oh Lord, you're sick, too, aren't you? Why didn't you call me?"
"You've got Chloe... and Clara to t-take care of. I d-didn't want to b-bother you."
Later, when she was feeling better, Beeca would scold her for that, but for now, she had other problems to deal with.
"Lucille's got it, too, so I think it would be better if you both came over here so I can take care of you. Do you think you'll be able to make it up the stairs if I help you?"
"Oh, I don't think so," the potter said with a groan.
"The way I'm feeling right now, I don't think I could make it outside by myself, let alone all the way to your house."
That wasn't the kind of news Becca wanted to hear. She considered herself a strong woman, but there was no way she could lift two old ladies who each outweighed her by a good twenty pounds or more and get them upstairs to the other empty guest rooms. She'd have to have help. Not wanting to disturb Tare Rawlings at the clinic, who undoubtedly already had her hands full, Becca quickly called James Carender, the rancher who lived a quarter of a mile farther down the road. He had, on occasion, helped her in the past, but as the phone rang hollowly in her home it was obvious he wasn't home.
Hanging up, she tried Laura Jacobs, Karen's mom, only to discover that she too, was in bed with the flu and that her husband couldn't leave her. Understanding perfectly, Becca called the teacher she assisted at school, hoping that her husband wouldn't mind helping out, but no one was home. Fifteen minutes later, Beeca had called everyone she knew. The few friends who were at home on a Saturday, were either sick themselves or dealing with someone who was, and no one could able spared to drive all the way out to Becca's and carry two old ladies upstairs.
Getting desperate, she called Tate back, who assure her that she'd send one of the men from the Double R out to help her as soon as possible, but that it might take, awhile—at least forty-five minutes—since the ranch was on the opposite side of the county from her. Afraid that Lucille and Margaret were as sick as Clara Beeca knew she couldn't leave them alone that long. There was only one person left to call, the one person she'd ha to force herself not to call first. Riley.
But when she rang the sheriff's office, Myrtle' told her, "Nobody's here right now. This flu bug has hit everybody hard, and every available man is out in the field helping wherever he can."
"Oh. I should have realized..."
Becca hadn't known how desperately she'd counted on Riley being there until then. Fighting the sudden, stupid urge to cry, she told herself not to be an idiot. Of course Riley would be busy.
In a town the size of Lordsburg, any kind of medical crisis would put a strain on the town's limited medical services, especially the only local ambulance. Riley and his men would be needed to ferry people to the Rawlings, Clinic or the hospital in Silver City.
"Well, if he or one of his deputies gets a minute, I could use some help," she said, explaining the situation.
"It'll take only a few moments, just long enough to get two old ladies upstairs to bed."
"I'll send out the word to the next deputy in that area," Myrtle promised.
"We'll get someone out there as soon as we can."
Considering the magnitude of the present crisis, that could mean ten minutes or five hours, but Becca knew the woman was doing the best she could. She heard Chloe cry out upstairs, and that effectively ended the phone call.
Thanking the dispatcher for her help, she hung up and ran for the steps.
Leaving the scent of antiseptic and sickness behind, Riley stepped out of the Rawlings Clinic and tiredly rubbed the back of his neck. He never should have stayed up talking to Dillon half the night, but his friend had had to get back to El Paso this morning, and they'd had a lot of catching up to do.
He was paying for it now, though. It had been a hell of a night so far and it was a long way from being over. He'd just run Janice Lamont and her three-month-old baby in to see Tate, and it looked like they'd both be staying awhile. Tate had taken one look at them and quickly told him they wouldn't be needing a ride back home anytime soon, which wasn't surprising. The baby hadn't stopped crying from the moment he'd answered Janice's frantic call an hour ago.
Cursing the bug that had swept through his county like a swarm of locusts, Riley slid behind the wheel of his car and reached for the mike to his radio.
"All right, Myrtle," he said in a voice that was rough with exhaustion.
"Janice and her baby have been taken care of. Where to next ? " Old Man Fulbright out on McCauley Road thinks he's having a heart attack and can't get Eddie to answer his call," she retorted, referring to the town's only ambulance driver.
'"Course that might have something to do with the fact that he claims he's having a heart attack every Saturday night, only tonight Eddie hasn't got time to fool with him. You'd better check on him, just to be sure, though."
"I'm on my way," Riley said, already backing out of the clinic parking lot.
Oh, and while you're out that way, you'd better make a run by Becca Prescott's place," Myrtle added.
His mind already on Old Man Fulbright, Riley jerked back to attention.
"What? Is Becca sick? When did she call in?"
"About ten minutes ago. She asked for you specifically, and no, she's not the one who's sick. It's those old lady neighbors of hers. She needs help moving
them to her house so she can take care of them."
Switching on his lights, Riley didn't ' wait anymore. I'll stop by there first. Fulbright's waited this long, he can wait another fifteen minutes. "
"I had a feeling you'd say that," Myrtle said dryly.
"I guess the rumors I've been hearing are true."
Promising himself that in his next lifetime he wasn't going to tolerate mouthy dispatchers who didn't know how to mind their own business, he growled, "Stuff it, lady. You know I don't listen to rumors."
"Maybe you should," she said with a chuckle.
"They're mighty interesting." Anticipating a scathing retort, she signed off, denying him the last word and leaving him wondering what people were saying.
Muttering over her boldness—he really was going to have to have a talk with her—he flattened the accelerator and flew over the back roads toward Becca's. Seeing her again so soon after last night wasn't a smart move on his part, but for now, she needed him. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Every light in her house was ablaze as he braked to a sharp stop in her driveway. Striding up the walk, he didn't bother to knock at her front door, but simply pushed it open and walked in.
"Becca?"
He was going to have to caution her about leaving her door unlocked for just anyone to walk in, he reminded himself as he glanced into the kitchen and found it empty, with the sink and counter full of dishes that she obviously hadn't had time to do. But then he saw her hurrying down the stairs and the thought flew right out of his head.
She looked tired. And beautiful. Her green eyes dark with fatigue in her pale face, she faltered at the sight of him, her hand automatically lifting to the wild mane of hair that had escaped the confines of the ribbon she'd tied around it. Something flashed in her eyes, something that looked an awful lot like need before she, too, remembered last night. Her smile was suddenly friendly, but impersonal, as she said,
"You can't possibly know how good it is to see someone who's not, as Clara put it, tossing his cookies."
His mouth twitched, but his eyes were serious as they searched hers.
"Everybody's sick?"
She nodded.
"Chloe got it this morning, then Clara around eight-thirty tonight.
She's already upstairs. Margaret and Lucille are still at home, though. They're too weak to walk over here, and there was no way I could leave Chloe and Clara to help them."
"Get their beds ready," he said, starting for the door.
"I'll be right back."
He was as good as his word, returning with Lucille first, who was as white as the prim nightgown she wore buttoned all the way to her throat. Holding herself stiffly as he carried her up the stairs, she complained weakly, "I'm not an invalid, Riley Whitaker. I'm perfectly capable of getting up these stairs by myself."
Over her iron gray head, Riley grinned.
"I never doubted it for a minute, Lucille. If you put your mind to it, you could probably make it all the way to Tucson and back before sunrise. So just indulge me, huh? I like rescuing old ladies. It makes me feel good."
She sniffed at that, trying not to smile in spite of the fact that she had to be feeling miserable.
"Who are you calling old? And if you want to hold someone, what's wrong with Becca?" she asked as he deposited her in the bed that Becca had already turned back for her.
"She's just the right size for you and looks like she could use a little TLC right now. The poor girl's worn out."
"Lucille!"
Ignoring Becca's gasp of protest, Riley winked. '"Don't worry about Becca—I'll take care of her. Behave yourself while I go fetch Margaret."
Chuckling, the older woman hardly waited until he was out of earshot before telling Becca, "You've got yourself a good man there. And a fine-looking one, too. Make sure you hold on to him."
With heat climbing into her cheeks, Becca tried and failed to look stern.
"Don't start that matchmaking malarkey with me, Lucille Brickman.
You're supposed to be sick, remember?"
"Don't remind me," she groaned.
"I'm trying not to think about it. God, I hate being sick!"
Concerned, Becca hovered over her, adjusting the pillow behind her head and tucking the covers more closely around her.
"I know. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can get you? Some grape juice or something?"
"No, nothing. Thank you, dear." Her eyes drifted shut and she sighed tiredly.
"Maybe if I lie here awhile without moving, it'll go away."
After tending Chloe, then Clam, for hours, Becca knew the flu bug wasn't something that could be ignored for long, but she didn't have the heart to disillusion her.
"Maybe," she agreed, patting her hand before moving to the door.
"I've got to help Riley get Margaret settled. Call if you need me."
Hearing Riley's footsteps on the stairs, she went into the hall just as he emerged with Margaret, who looked like a wilted rose in a pink nightgown that dashed horribly with her red hair.
"In here," Becca said quickly, motioning them into her own bedroom, where Riley gently laid the older woman on her old-fashioned iron bed.
Margaret forced open her eyes and smiled up as Becca pulled the covers over her so she wouldn't get chilled.
"Thank you, child. I was just telling Riley how wonderful it was to have a man around. Don't you think so?"
"What I think," Becca said, her dimples flashing before she could summon up a frown, "is that you need to get some rest. I'll be back in a moment with some juice." She hurried down the stairs with Riley right on her heels, intending to make some comment about the fever scrambling her incorrigible neighbors' brains. But the second she turned to face him in the living room and her eyes met his, she forgot all about the old ladies upstairs, who would still be matchmaking on their deathbeds. She wanted him to hold her just for a second. She hadn't realized how much until just now.
The yearning he saw in her eyes nearly drove him to his knees. But he couldn't reach for her, not if he intended to make it to Old Man Fulbright's anytime soon. Dillon was right, he thought, staring at the sweet curves of her mouth and aching to taste her. He'd changed, and the woman responsible was standing right in front of him. And not a damn thing could come of it.
"I've got to go," he said hoarsely.
"I know," she answered softly, but she never moved toward the door.
Seconds passed, long, agonizing moments when just breathing became a chore. Unable to stop himself, Riley reached out and trailed a finger down her cheek. Then he was gone.
Chapter 8
It didn't take much to throw a five-deputy office into a panic, especially when the flu was spreading through the southwest corner of the state like wildfire across dry grasslands. So when John Sanchez wasn't able to relieve him the following morning because he, too, was "tossing his cookies," Riley simply worked a double shift.
But things always got worse before they got better, and by the middle of the afternoon, he'd lost Lance Carson. He handled it the only way he could—by calling in Mark Newman and Darrel Gabriel and working out a schedule they could all live with until the crisis passed. Shortening and staggering their shifts, they would each work four hours, take four off for sleep, then report back in again. Then he lost Myrtle.
One minute she was there and the next she wasn't, and suddenly the whole damn place was going to hell in a handbasket. Phones were ringing off the wall with no one to answer them, the paperwork to transfer the county's lone prisoner—a bail jumper—back to Santa Fe was misplaced and Riley didn't have a single deputy patrolling the county roads.
Trying to juggle the phones and find the transfer papers for the prisoner at the same time, Riley roared, "Mark! Take over for Myrtle. Darrel, go home and get some sleep. I want you back here in four hours and not a minute later."
Both men jumped to follow orders and quickly got out of his way.
Muttering curses, he was finally able to line the tr
ansfer papers and unload the prisoner on the Santa Fe deputy who'd been pacing the office for the last hour, complaining that he had to get out of there before he caught the damn flu. The phone stopped ringing, the place settled down, and for the first time in what seemed like hours, Riley was able to hear himself think.
For all of thirty seconds.
"Mrs. Hester out on Mockingbird Lane called to say the Johnson's dog is barking again and waking up her baby," Mark called from the dispatch room, shattering the silence.
"I told her we were shorthanded and couldn't send someone out there right now, but that I'd give Mr. Johnson a call."
Concentrating on clearing his desk of the paperwork that covered it, Riley never looked up.
"Fine."
Two seconds passed.
"Mr. Johnson said he was sick and didn't give a damn what his dog was doing—he wasn't going to do anything about it. I guess I'd say the same thing if I was sick."
Riley only granted. If he didn't answer, maybe the rookie would get the message that he was too damn tired for chitchat. But Mark's head had always been thicker than granite and Riley should have known better.
"They say the flu hasn't been this bad since that influenza epidemic in the twenties, when all those people died.
Nobody's died yet, but they say the hospital over in Silver City is filling up fast and school's already been canceled for tomorrow and Tuesday. "
The thin reign he had on his patience snapping, Riley grabbed his hat and jammed it on his head, then strode toward the door.
"I'm going out," he said between his teeth.
"If anything comes up, give me a call on the radio."
He meant to hit the main trouble spots and make sure no one was taking advantage of the absence of law enforcement officers. But he'd never seen the streets so empty, and it didn't take long to figure out that most people were lying low and staying home. With nothing left to do, he should have gone back to the office. But just the thought of dealing with Mark again, listening to his account of every call that came in, had him turning his patrol car in the opposite direction.
Toward Becca's.
He didn't even try to talk hind self into not stopping. He'd managed to tear himself away from her before, but the yearning he'd seen in her eyes had haunted him ever since, calling him back. Even in the midst of the biggest crisis of his tenure as sheriff, he hadn't been able to push her from his thoughts.
