The Cowboy's Baby: Devlin Brothers Ranch

by Joanna Bell

I went back to the room and pulled up a chair beside the bed. I had some idea that you were supposed to talk to people in situations like Jackson's, even if you didn't think they could hear you. Apparently sometimes they can.

  Thick bandages covered his entire right arm, including his hand. Where the skin was exposed – his neck, most of his face, the fingers on his one hand – it was bright red and raw looking. It looked extremely painful. Although I wanted to talk to him, part of me was grateful he wasn't awake.

  "Brody wanted to come today," I whispered, leaning in close. He didn't even smell like himself – he smelled like bandages and antiseptic and hospital. "But I wouldn't let him. I wasn't sure what to expect – I didn't want him to see you if it was too much. I thought you would agree but I'm not – well obviously I'm not sure."

  Jackson stayed exactly where he was, flat on his back as his lungs painfully drew in air and blew it back out again. I didn't know a human being breathing could sound like that – dry, almost crispy.

  What if he doesn't get better?

  I pushed the question aside in my mind.

  "They wouldn't let me visit before," I continued. "I tried, but today was the first day I was allowed. The nurses said the danger of infection has lessened. They said you're the strongest patient they've ever had."

  I paused to get a hold on my emotions. I didn't want to cry – not if there was any chance he could hear me. I didn't want him to hear the doubt in my voice.

  Because one thing he didn't look like in that hospital bed that day was strong. And it didn't really have anything to do with the fact that he'd lost a little weight. He was as tall and almost as muscled as he ever was. It was the unconsciousness – the helplessness. It was knowing that, if he were awake, he would hate it. Even more than the pain he would hate being dependent, hate not being able to hop out of bed and buck a truck's worth of hay bales into a loft.

  A nurse poked her head into the room. "Fifteen minutes."

  I nodded and looked back down at Jackson.

  "I miss you," I whispered. "It's easier to say that to you now. I don't know why. Brody misses you, too. And Lacey. And I – Jackson, I wanted to tell you something. I've been waiting to, uh – to tell you –"

  I broke off and pulled a tissue out of a box set on a side table.

  "I wanted to tell you that I know what you did," I continued, my voice shaking. "I know you came for us, Jackson. I know that's why you were there at the house."

  His arm, the one closest to me, moved suddenly. Towards me. He was reaching for me. Gently, ever so gently, I laid my fingers on the thick layer of bandages.

  And then he made a noise. A horrible noise, halfway between a retch and a deep, chesty cough.

  "It's OK," I said hurriedly. "It's OK, Jackson. I'm here. I'm –"

  He made the noise again. Could he still breathe? Was he choking? I moved to get up but the hand I was holding, the one I had thought immobile, reached out to keep me where I was. He knew I was there. He wanted me to stay.

  "Jackson," I wept, clutching the bandaged hand and then immediately loosening my grip and apologizing. "Jackson, I –"

  He made the sound again. But that time, it was more of a word.

  "Ay-ee."

  Ay-ee?

  Hailey.

  My name. He was saying my name. I blinked and sent a fresh flood of tears rolling down my cheeks.

  "I hear you," I reassured him. "I hear you, my love. Oh, Jackson. Jesus, I am so happy to see you. I'm so –"

  "Hailey?" A female voice intruded upon our moment.

  I looked up. It was the nurse again.

  "Visiting hours are ending."

  "OK," I replied. "We're almost done. He's trying to –"

  "He's trying to speak, I know. And I know this is hard for you, too, but it's very important that you understand how important rest is right now. He's healing."

  A flash of anger rose up in my chest but I forced it back down. The nurse was right. And the last thing Jackson needed was the stress of listening to an argument.

  "OK."

  But the nurse wasn't leaving.

  "I'll come back tomorrow," I said. The hand on my leg became heavier. He was trying to keep me where I was. "I have to go. But I'll be here tomorrow, OK? I promise."

  Carefully placing his arm – still so solid, so heavy – back onto the bed, I turned to the nurse. "Can I – can I kiss him? His face?"

  She nodded and I bent over the only man I have ever loved, gently swiping one of my own tears from his dry, red cheek when it fell from my eye and kissing him softly.

  "I'll see you tomorrow. Promise. I – I promise."

  I waited until I was outside, breathing in the scent of the flowers planted around the hospital grounds and waiting for my ride, to properly lose my shit. I spent the entire drive back to the house in the hills sobbing my guts out, seesawing back and forth between a kind of immense, all-encompassing relief at the fact that he was alive and a gut-wrenching, nauseating guilt.

  He was in that hospital bed, barely able to talk or move, because of me. I should have left the ranch sooner than I did that day. It was so stupid to have stayed. So, so stupid. And all I had to show for my stupidity were a few rapidly healing minor burns. I hadn't spoken to any of the nurses yet about Jackson's future – none of them would talk to me without his permission, due to my not being family – but anyone could see just from looking at him that things were never going to be the same again.

  ***

  The next day, as promised, I returned.

  Jackson was awake when I walked into the room, his eyes just barely open. When he saw me, he smiled.

  How to describe the feeling of seeing that smile? Of knowing it was for me and only me? It felt like stepping into the sunshine after being kept in a cold, dark room for weeks. It felt like it used to feel, years ago. Like nothing was wrong in the world.

  So obviously the first thing I did was burst into tears.

  "Shhh," he said, still smiling as I pulled a chair close to the bed. "Shhh."

  He was gesturing to the bed, asking me to sit down next to him. I hesitated.

  "No!" A nurse commanded as she came in to check on him. "I'm sorry, but you can't have anyone sitting on the bed, Mr. Devlin. You don't get your next painkiller until –" she looked down at her watch – "3 hours from now."

  As soon as she left, Jackson tried to guide me, with his bandaged arm, to the bed again. I sat down in the chair.

  "I don't want to hurt you."

  "Oo cuh –" he rasped, stopping before trying again. "Oo – you – you cuh...you cuh. You couldn't –"

  "Couldn't hurt you?" I replied quietly, wiping my eyes. "I think we both know that's not true. Look at –"

  But before I could continue, Jackson held up his least bandaged arm and shook his head slightly. "No. Hailey, no. I – maybe I – "

  It was my turn to shush him. It was awful watching how much effort it was taking him just to speak, just to force words out of his poor, damaged lungs. "Stop," I said. "Whatever it is you have to say, you can tell me later. Tomorrow, or next week. We don't have to talk. You don't have to talk. It's OK."

  But he wasn't having it. He held up his hand again and took a slow, deep breath. And then he finished what he'd been trying to say:

  "You couldn't... hurt... me."

  I wasn't sure how many drugs Jackson was on. I didn't really care, either. All that mattered was that he was awake and that he looked a tiny bit better than he did the day before. I calculated days in my head, how many days it would take, with the incremental improvements, before he could sit up. Before he could speak without pain. Before he could rip the bandages off his arm and hold my hand.

  Assuming holding my hand was something he was interested in doing when he fully understood the reason he was in the hospital in the first place.

  You couldn't hurt me.

  I didn't know what he meant.

  It could wait. All that mattered was getting him better, stronger – and the hell out
of that hospital.

  "Hailey –"

  "It's OK," I repeated. "Jackson, really. You don't have to talk. I'm here. And I'll be here every day until –"

  He rolled over towards me and reached out with his 'good' hand, running his fingers lightly down the inside of my wrist, down into my palm. "Stop talking."

  I couldn't help but laugh. He may have been in pain, he may have been badly injured, he may have spent the last 3 weeks flat on his back in a hospital bed – but he was still Jackson Devlin.

  "You couldn't hurt me because I don't care..." he paused and squeezed his eyes shut. It was obviously causing him pain, but I knew nothing I said was going to stop him. Also, I wanted to hear what he had to say. Did he remember everything? Had he spent his time in the hospital ruminating on the fact that it was my choice not to leave the ranch that night, when all of the horror could still have been avoided?

  "I don't care about anything... anymore... Hailey. I –"

  "Stop," I whispered, horrified. "Jackson, stop. You're still injured. You haven't had enough time to heal. You just need to –"

  "I don't care about anything... except you and... Brody. I don't even... care if I die...as long as the two of you are... OK."

  I briefly looked up and out the open door, checking for eavesdropping nurses. I knew I was about to lose my shit and didn't really want anyone watching. But no one was there. So I tightened my hand around his, as much as I felt I could without hurting him, and cried.

  I cried for myself, and for Jackson, and for our son. For all the lost time. All the missed moments we would never get back. All the precious years wasted trying to convince myself something wasn't true when it was.

  I loved him. I always did. Even as a child, before that love turned into something more, I loved him. I looked up to him. It was his approval, his proud wink I wanted more than anything, no matter how small the achievement.

  And then I grew up and the portrait of my heart was no longer painted in a child's primary colors but deeper hues, new tones. It was no coincidence that this happened when I was with Jackson. It happened because of him. I may have been the painter but he provided me with the paint. Without him there was every chance I would still be the defensive, quick to anger child I used to be. My mother did everything she could for me, gave me all her love and care. But it was Jackson Devlin who showed me what a man was. What a good man was.

  A good man? After everything that's happened? Everything he's said and done?

  Yes. I lifted my head and swallowed, trying to think of how I was going to put it all into words – but he was asleep.

  Very carefully, I ran my fingertips over the part of his hand that wasn't covered with bandages. The skin was shiny and rigid, flaking off in places.

  Visiting hours weren't over, so I sat back in my chair and watched him sleep, marveling at – well, everything. Because I could see it now, so clearly. I could see how much I needed him, and how much being without him for so long had forced me to grow a protective outer shell.

  All I needed was the word, the signal from him. All I needed was to hear him tell me everything was going to be OK.

  It did cross my mind to be ashamed of myself. A critical voice made itself heard, at the back of my mind.

  Really? It asked haughtily. 23 years old and you still need permission from some man to feel your own feelings? You still need Jackson Devlin to tell you it's OK?

  And here's the thing, here's the simple truth: yes. Yes, I did need his permission. Yes, I did need him to tell me it was OK. Not because he was a man or I was a woman or any bullshit, sexist outside projections from people who didn't understand a damn thing about anything. I needed those things because I loved him. Because that's what we need from the people we love, regardless of what magazines or TV or the internet or our friends tell us – or what we tell ourselves in those moments when we think we're being strong but actually we're being weak.

  I don't care about anything except you and Brody. That's what he said. I don't even care if I die as long as you're OK.

  What I wanted to tell him was that my being OK, our son's being OK, was entirely contingent on him being OK.

  Jackson wasn't going to die, because I wasn't going to fucking let him. I sat curled up in that plastic hospital chair beside his bed filled with furious conviction – he was going to live. He was going to heal. I was going to make sure of it. If death wanted to walk into the room with his scythe he could damn well go ahead and try because I had something better than a scythe. I had love.

  And I had years to make up for.

  Chapter 46: Jackson

  She came to me. Eventually, I found the surface of the dark water and there she was, a vision, an angel of grace and forgiveness at my side. Sometimes I would slip back into the ocean again but she didn't abandon me. The one person in the world who would have been perfectly within her rights to leave me to my fate refused to do so.

  I remember that time as one of frustration, especially at first when just being awake was exhausting. There was so much to say. So much to tell her. And most of the time I could barely get a sentence out without needing to sleep.

  Things improved, though. I began to heal. It was an excruciatingly slow process, but it happened. I'll never believe that she wasn't responsible for most of it. For so long the only reason to keep my eyes open or take a bite of food or submit to the skin-stretching exercises the nurses tortured me with was simply the thought that it got me closer to seeing Hailey again.

  Slowly, the days began to take shape once more. The rhythms of night and day returned, putting the strange blur of time that has been the weeks immediately after the fire behind me. I started to get stronger. Speaking was still difficult, but that was only because my lungs were still as crispy as the bacon the nurses steadfastly refused to bring me.

  On the first day I managed to sit up there was what can only be described as a kerfuffle going on outside my room. At first I thought it was the medical staff arguing about something. The voices were low, but they soon rose. It was Hailey I heard first:

  "How do I know? Because I know him. And I know you. He doesn't want you here – any of you."

  A murmured, angry response. A man and a woman, talking over each other.

  If my brain hadn't been addled on strong painkillers, I would have known immediately who it was. My dad and Darcy. They'd visited a few times, sitting silently in chairs beside me or pacing the room, staring out the window and complaining about whatever it was they were complaining about that day. I hadn't yet had the strength to tell them to fuck off. I tried to tell one of the nurses once, during one of my good moments, but she either didn't understand or pretended not to, the way people from happy families often do when confronted with someone from a not-so-happy one.

  "I don't care."

  That was Hailey again.

  "Get out of the way. I won't have the likes of you stopping me from seeing my own son."

  That was my dad, as hostile and patronizing as ever. I almost admired the fucker for holding on to his aversion to someone he barely knew for so long. Of course, along with that admiration came a sudden strong urge to punch him square in the face for daring to use that tone while speaking to Hailey.

  "HEY!" I yelled.

  Only I didn't yell anything. I just made a soft croaking sound, like a frog with laryngitis. No one heard me. Outside the room, I heard the sounds of an actual scuffle. And more voices.

  "Sir. Sir, please! We're going to have to ask you to –"

  My father at his most arrogantly indignant, ordering someone – Hailey – to get out of the way again.

  And then, her voice as clear as a bell, Hailey herself:

  "No. I won't. Do what you want, Jack. Hit me if you want. But I won't get out of the way. He doesn't want to see you. And I'm not going to let you into that room."

  Fierce, she was. As fierce as a lioness. Hearing her defend me like that filled with an immediate, total, helpless love. I didn't deserve it. And yet there she
was out there, standing up to my dad like I myself had never quite managed to do, sticking up for my sorry ass after I went out of my way so many times to make her hate me.

  I had to get out there. Because as proud as it made me to have Hailey stick up for me, it made me even angrier to hear the way my dad was talking to her. But I couldn't get out of bed. I could sit up, I could move my arms and legs, but I still couldn't get out of bed without great effort.

  "Just who do you think you are, young lady?"

  Darcy. I would recognize that shrill tone anywhere.

  "Who do I think I am?" Hailey replied, pausing and then repeating herself in a tone that would have had a passed out drunk straightening his back. "Who do I think I am, Darcy? Jack? Are you asking me that because you want an answer? Because I've got one. He knows what you did, you know. We both know. We know you did the exact opposite of what good parents do for their children. Instead of protecting him, you attacked him. Instead of being there for him when he needed you, you manipulated him. You put your own reputations above your own son! You lied to him. So ask me again who do I think I am? I'm the mother of your grandchild, and the only person here who can say they love the man in that room. So no, I will not get out of the way!"

  Goddamn. Goddamn.

  I only wish I could have seen Darcy and my dad's faces, their hair blown back as they slunk silently away down the hall.

  A second later Hailey walked in and blinked when she saw me awake and sitting up.

  "Oh!" She said.

  "Oh indeed," I whispered, smiling through the pain of speaking. "Damn, girl. You really... you let them..."

  "Shhh," she said. "I didn't think you were awake. I'm sorry if you heard –"

  "I love you."

  It came out more like 'uh uhf oo' but she understood. She went very still and looked right at me. I must have looked like a crazy person. Covered in bandages, bright pink where my skin was showing, barely able to speak or sit up and not sure if I was smiling or tearing up or both.

  "Jackson," she replied, shaking her head a little and then breaking out into a smile of her own. "I love you, too."