Rugged and Restless

by Saylor Bliss

  “Christine,” DC said, shaking his head. “You need to calm down.”

  “No, I don’t.” I cried, pushing my hair off my face. “You say you’re his friend. But you make him prove himself every time.

  Every.

  Damn.

  Time.”

  DC stepped closer, his face a mask. Probably going to arrest me, but I didn’t care. Maybe if I was in jail with Bull, I could kill the bastard.

  “Travis didn’t do nothing wrong.” A voice rose from the edge of the crowd.

  The group of onlookers shifted in one fluid motion, like a giant single-celled organism. The lights overhead flashed on red hair, as Wyatt walked forward until he stood looking down at Travis. He trembled, then faced his father.

  “Bull was waiting for him.” Wyatt’s voice was tinged with a mix of misery and defiance. “He was mad at me for helping with the fire today. Mad because the McGees let me help. He brought me here to show me what he did to people who cross him. When Travis got out of his car, Bull jumped him. Travis tried talking to him but Bull was yelling. He wouldn’t listen.”

  From ten feet away, Bull lunged against the arms holding him back. “You shut your mouth, boy, you hear me? You shut your damned mouth or you know it’ll get shut for you.”

  “You wanted a witness.” Wyatt squared his thin shoulders. “I’m your witness.”

  “Damn it, boy, shut the f—” One of the men guarding Bull slugged him in the belly and he doubled over.

  DC motioned to his deputy. “Get him out of here, Sherwood. Book him on assault. Call Doc Trent to have a look at him. I don’t want him bleeding all over my jail.”

  “Easy, son.” DC placed an easy hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’ll see you get home.” Wyatt shook his head, regarding Bull with hatred blazing in his eyes. “No, I’ll get myself home. Just keep Bull away from me. He’s not my father.” With the backs of his hands, he scrubbed tears from his eyes.

  The sound of a helicopter landing in the church parking lot across the street interrupted the exchange.

  More than seven years had passed since I had given report on a patient. Somehow I managed to untangle my emotions enough to give an objective case presentation to the middle-aged flight nurse in a dark blue jumpsuit. His badge identified him as G. Wilcox, RN.

  As I spoke, Nurse Wilcox worked to finish stabilizing Travis. I helped get him onto a backboard, closing my eyes when the endotracheal tube was placed. “Are you a doctor or a nurse?” asked Wilcox.

  “EMT, retired.”

  “Still certified?”

  I nodded.

  “We’re riding one short tonight,” Wilcox shouted over the sound of the helicopter. “It’s against protocol, but we sure could use a hand getting up to Jackson.”

  “I…” If Wilcox had been aware of my relationship with the patient, he’d never have asked me along. It would keep me in the loop I would surely be left out of, as soon as the connection was discovered. Still, I hesitated, torn between the life I’d tried to forget and the man I loved.

  “Go, Christine,” urged Grant. “I’ll let Dad know what happened and meet you up there.”

  Accepting the mantle of professional EMT, I nodded and climbed into the helicopter. We were at the trauma center in Jackson in less than twenty minutes, and then I was relegated back to observer status, as Travis was whisked away for evaluation and treatment.

  I sank into a blue chair in the waiting room, the generic kind, made of plastic and metal, and so common in emergency rooms. Hot tears streamed from my eyes, soaking my cheeks.

  A gentle hand touched my on the shoulder. I started. I must have fallen asleep. Quickly I looked at the console but the red light remained dark. A throat cleared behind me and I spun around. The man with one hand on my cubicle wall was tall, well over six feet, with hair that reminded me of a pepper shaker. His firehouse dress blues told me he was on official department business. Deep compassion shone in his warm brown eyes.

  “No,” I whispered. “Not yet, please.”

  “Jocelyn, I’m Chaplain Hindson with LAFD,” he introduced himself formally, no smile, no offer of a handshake. “I understand you’ve been talking to one of our men.”

  “He’s been calling in every so often, trying to conserve the battery on his handheld,” I said. “His name is Mickey.”

  Chaplain Hindson nodded. “How are you holding up? You’ve worked almost twenty-four hours.”

  “Only about twenty-one so far.” The red light on the console popped on. “Hey, Angel, I’m checking in. Are you there?”

  “As promised,” I sang out, instilling brightness in my words. I spared a glance over my shoulder at the chaplain. “Mick, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Chaplain Hindson.”

  The radio squawked, but Mick was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Okay, put him on.”

  I stood and exchanged places with Chaplain Hindson so he could operate the comm system, but I lingered nearby, shamelessly listening in.

  “Son, is there anyone you want us to call?”

  Mickey took an even longer time answering. “There’s a letter in my locker for my family. Call them… afterwards, okay, Padre?”

  “Son, we might be able to patch you through, let you talk to them.”

  “No! This is for them, Padre. They can’t do anything to help, to change things, and they’ll hate that. Best to leave it until it’s over. Lieutenant Ryder has all my particulars in my employment files.”

  “Okay, son, it’s your call. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “No offense, Chaplain Hindson,” Mickey said between gasps. “But I’d really like to go back to chatting with my girl. I’m not getting out of here, and I’d really like for her voice to be the last one I hear.”

  “Of course, son.” The chaplain motioned for me to take my seat again. “I don’t think he has much longer. Thank you for doing this. I’ll be here in the main office if you need me.”

  “Hey, Mick, I’m back.” My voice sounded too brassy but I couldn’t seem to temper the forced sparkle. I was losing my tenuous hold on my emotions. Tears blurred my vision and I hastily wiped them away, suppressing a little sniff.

  “Hey there, girl. Those better not be tears for me I’m hearing.”

  “Now, what makes you think I would cry for you? Maybe I jammed my toe on my desk.”

  He chuckled. “Are you a klutz, Angel?”

  “You know it.”

  “I mean it about no crying.” His voice grew serious. “I’ve lived a good life, gotten into my share of trouble. I have a family I love. And I’m even more ’n halfway in love with you, Angel. I’ve had it good. I just wish I would have got to kiss you.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Christine

  A gentle hand on my shoulder startled me. I looked up, surprised to see Travis’s green eyes regarding my solemnly. No, not Travis, my tired brain finally registered. Grant.

  “Any word?” he asked.

  I looked past Grant to see Justin settling into the seat next to me. The old cowboy looked out of place in the hospital. His face —an older version of Travis’s, I realized —was pale. He had deep shadows in his blue eyes.

  “They took him for a CT scan a few minutes ago to check for damage to his internal organs and for bleeding in the brain. He hasn’t woken up yet.” My voice cracked and next to me, Justin took my hand. “They’re watching his heart because he took a bad blow to the chest and if he develops bruising or swelling in the pericardium, the rhythm can—” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, then lowered my arms and met Grant’s gaze. I finished in a whisper. “His heart can stop.”

  Justin’s hand tightened spasmodically, and I turned mine over to clasp our palms together. Grant slumped in his seat and let his head roll back against the wall.

  Waiting was always the worst. I took a small measure of comfort that this time the subject of my vigil was actually receiving medical care, rather than waiting for rescue
that would never come.

  I even found myself laughing when Grant shared stories about growing up as Travis McGee’s baby brother. I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone with the lighthearted optimistic act, but he seemed to need to keep talking.

  When Grant finally trailed off, Justin stood, stretched. “I never was a good one for waiting. I saw something looking like it might pass for a coffee machine on the way in.” He clutched his hat by the brim as if it was the only thing holding him upright. “If—” He broke off awkwardly.

  “We’ll find you if we hear anything,” I promised.

  When he was gone, Grant looked up into my eyes, seeking answers. Though he didn’t voice the question, I understood he wasn’t looking for me4 to give assurances if there were none.

  “The testing can take a long time,” I said. “Best case will be by the time the tests are done, he’ll be awake and surly because he wants to go home, but his mental status will be clear. He’s going to hurt for a while.”

  Grant said nothing. Without a doubt he’d recognized my omission of the worst case scenario.

  “Why did they put a tube down his throat?” he finally asked.

  “He was choking on his blood.” I spoke quietly, maintaining outward calm I didn’t feel. “It was just to help him breathe.” And in case his throat swells closed.

  “Is he going to die?” Grant blurted. His face displayed stark terror, mirroring what I felt.

  I could only offer a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.” A tear slid down my cheek, followed by another one. With a sniff, I cleared my throat and dashed the wetness from my face. “Grant, that was a horrific beating. A lot of hate went into it. Your dad told me how you lost your mother but this hatred of Bull’s… it feels like more. It runs deeper. What happened between them?”

  “You have to ask Ry.”

  With a determined shake of my head, I glared at him. “No, you don’t get to put me off. I’m asking you. Travis said there were things I needed to know, things he wanted to tell me. He would have told me tonight. That’s what he was coming to my place to do. But we never got the chance to talk. So I’m asking his brother to help him out here.”

  Grant stared indecisively for a minute. Then he gave in. “Bull and his parents are convinced Trav killed Bull’s brother, Mac. And I think —at least a little bit —Trav accepts the responsibility.”

  “No,” I whispered in dismay. “What happened? Was there an accident?”

  “We all called him Mac but his name was John, Johnny when he was younger. Somewhere along the way, Trav called him Mac and it stuck. Mac decided Mac MacKay sounded cool.”

  I blinked in surprise. Mac MacKay?

  “Copy you, 9-Bravo. Who am I speaking with?”

  “Mick-” More static, then, “Mic-key.”

  Frowning, I stared across the waiting room. The stark white walls, lined with pictures of the mountains, spun out of focus, replaced by a messy dispatch station, a notebook with messy handwriting.

  I jotted the name into my notes. “Mickey, you’re breaking up badly. How many do you number? How long have you been trapped?”

  He hadn’t corrected me. It was just a weird fluke that the name was so similar. Mick Mickey was just so close to Mac MacKay that my memory was playing tricks. Right? Could he have actually said “Mac MacKay?” The radio connection hadn’t been great. I shook my head. No, that would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it? To end up in Mick’s hometown? I had gone looking for his description of a place with plains and forest nearby. And what were the odds I would stumble onto another person in Wyoming with such a similar name who was also dead?

  “Christine?”

  I forced my attention back on Grant. “Sorry, my mind was wandering.”

  “So I noticed.” He sat still, his head angled, just looking at me. I shifted under his scrutiny, wondering if he had any idea how like his father he was.

  Finally he picked up the story again.

  My heart broke for the battered sixteen-year-old. And for the not-quite-man who’d tried to rescue his abused cousin, in the process turning his back on his family, rather than involving them in something that would only bring on more MacKay wrath.

  “How did Mac die? Why does Travis feel responsible?”

  “After they did a tour in the army, Travis and Mac became firefighters,” Grant said.

  I nodded as things began to fall into place and I blew out a relieved breath. Not the same man. “Right. Allan Cross said Travis fought oil fires.” I busied my hands by flipping through a magazine without looking at it.

  “He did for a while, before Mac came of age and they joined the army together,” Grant explained. “But this was after they left the army. They mustered out at Fort Irwin. Ended up in L.A.”

  My hands stilled in mid-flip. A chill started in my chest, rippled out to my arms, down into my belly.

  “Apparently someone from their army unit got them into the training program for L.A. City Fire Department.”

  I shivered.

  “You’re pale. Are you okay?”

  Drawing a deep breath to shore up my nerves, I nodded and whispered, “Go on.”

  Grant stood and began pacing in the tiny, deserted room. “Mac’s whole life, what Trav did, Mac did, too. My brother was his hero.”

  My heart squeezed just a little for Grant. Clearly Mac wasn’t the only one who’d always looked up to Travis. “But just because Mac decided to be a firefighter, too… that doesn’t make his death Travis’s fault.”

  “They were partnered up,” Grant explained.

  Little pinpricks began to crawl along my skin like thousands of unseen insects. Setting the magazine down, I rubbed my arms, trying to dispel the feeling.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “How —how did Mac… die?”

  “Earthquake,” Grant answered. “You remember the big one in L.A. about seven years ago?”

  “Oh, man. No…” I couldn’t keep the shaky warble from my voice as the room began to spin. “I remember.”

  “They were clearing a building after a gas explosion when it collapsed. Mac died when—Whoa!”

  Bones and muscles melted into a puddle, and I slid off the chair. White and beige floor tiles rose up toward my face.

  “That was a strong one,” Mick said.

  “A strong what?”

  “Aftershock. Feel it? It’s still moving.”

  I looked around the room. Coworkers were manning the other boards. All was silent. And still.

  “Aw, damn,” whispered Mick. “‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’”

  I instantly recognized Lysander’s line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “It can,” I insisted. “It will, Mick!” Tears welled.

  “Angel… I’m sorry. I think —we could have had something good—”

  Crashing and crunching sounds came over the comm, followed by a burst of static and then nothing. Not even the hiss of open air. The connection had been abruptly severed.

  “No!” I shouted in frustration. Around me, other dispatchers stared openly. Two of them averted their stares, murmuring and shaking their heads.

  Frantic, I worked the buttons on the outdated radio system, trying to reestablish a connection, but the link remained silent.

  “It’s okay. His battery died, that’s all,” I told myself.

  One by one, the clock ticked off the minutes of radio silence.

  I stared at my console, willing it to light up again. But when it did, it was just an outside call, and one of my coworkers picked it up.

  “They got through!” someone shouted.

  “They made contact,” said Kate at the next workstation. I listened to the report, one hand on the link in my ear. But as the happy grin on my face began to fade, dread gripped my heart.

  Then the chaplain was at my side.

  “No!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you say it. I was just talking to him. He was fine!”

  “They got through a few minutes ago,�
� Chaplain Hindson said gently. “I’m sorry. They were both gone when search and rescue got to them.”

  I closed my eyes against the burn of tears. He hadn’t wanted me to cry. I stopped breathing, drowning in a tsunami-sized wave of pain. I’d known this was a possibility; worse, it had been the likely outcome. But I’d never given up hope. And now… I had no more hope to hold onto. Mick had no more hope. He was gone before I’d ever had a chance to really get to know him. Drawing a deep breath, I forced my eyes open.

  “Thank you for letting me know.” I forced the words through stiff lips as I checked my watch. The digital readout swam into focus: 7: 21. Tears, I refused to succumb to, burned my eyes as I made a final notation in my log: Duration of contact 23: 57: 00.

  Numb to everything, ignoring the stares and the whispers around my, I pushed past friends and strangers and stepped into the parking lot. Alone, I set loose the hot tears.

  Grant’s face, even paler than it had been earlier, hovered above me, his green eyes clouded with worry.

  “You think you can sit up, girl?” Justin’s gravelly voice brought me to the present.

  I tried to piece my revelation together. “Not Mick. It was Mac. Mac MacKay.” I pulled in deep breaths of air, not interested in meeting the floor so up close and personal again. “Mac…” I tested the name on my tongue, finding it foreign after years of him being Mick.

  “I’ll go get help,” said Grant.

  “No!” I said sharply. I sat up, took Justin’s hand and let him pull me to my feet. “I’m, um, I’m good. I, ah, need to tell you something.”