by Leigh Riker
“Nicky won’t have to worry about that,” Logan said. She could almost see the taut line of his mouth, the hard look in his eyes that had become too familiar during their battles after she left him. “I’ve told you before. The Circle H will see to his education.” He heaved an obviously frustrated sigh. “Why do you worry about things you don’t need to?”
She sighed. “I know you mean well, and I do trust you, Logan. I’ll try to worry less about finances, but what about my ambitions? And look at Grey. He almost lost all his cattle, which would have ruined him. There are no guarantees in life. I need to make sure things are good for Nick.”
Logan knew her well enough to know how her family’s breakup had affected her and Grey—how she’d come to mistrust her father’s promises and too often felt as if she were alone in the world with only herself to rely on. Or her mother, and they still rarely agreed on any best course of action. Last summer, Olivia had gone with her to Thailand, and delightful as the country was, they’d almost killed each other.
Feeling cornered, she said, “I worry about my son.” Then Olivia suppressed a groan. She shouldn’t have said that. “Our son, I mean.”
It was as if all the progress she and Logan had made this spring and summer vanished with those few words. Was she turning into her mother? Always ready to do battle with her ex?
In the background, Olivia could hear Blossom’s soft voice encouraging Logan to take a deep breath. From the bedroom down the hall, Olivia heard Nick drop another bunch of Lincoln Logs into his toy box with a clatter.
The last thing she’d wanted was to antagonize Logan. He had every right to want their child near, especially when he’d given up so much of his flying career to be with him now, with Blossom, with Sam at the Circle H. Secure in Blossom’s love, Logan wasn’t the same man Olivia had left three years ago. But had she changed?
“Logan. We wouldn’t be moving that far. I don’t want to argue,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please. Try to understand my side of things.”
“I’ve bent over backward to do just that. I thought we’d managed to make peace with each other. I’m on my honeymoon,” he said. “You think I want to fight about this?” He took that breath Blossom had suggested. “I don’t. I also won’t stand by and watch Nicky move to...wherever it is you plan to go.”
“The next county,” she admitted. “If the deal with Ted goes through, I’d be back and forth, in Barren quite often. You could still easily see Nick. And if it doesn’t, then I’ll be right here for at least a little while longer.”
“Great.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s reassuring. Nicky has friends here, Libby. He and Ava are inseparable—or they were before he got hurt. When I talked to Grey yesterday, Shadow told me Ava misses Nicky. You should get them together. He’s finally settled after our divorce and you’d uproot him again?” He paused for a brief moment. “That’s not going to happen. Hear me?”
“How could I not?” She said, “I wish Nick hadn’t told you like that.”
“So do I. He was practically in tears. You should have given me a heads-up.”
She glanced toward the hall. She heard no further sound from Nick’s room. Either he’d finished putting his toys away and was distracted by the new pile of books they’d checked out earlier from the library, or he was trying to listen in. She could imagine his ears pricked up at their conversation. “I’m sorry, Logan. I’ll talk to him.”
“To tell him what? That you’re going to take him from his father again?”
Olivia had no answer for that. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through clearly.
“Logan,” she heard Blossom say, but he disconnected the call.
Olivia stood there, the cordless phone in her hand. She would have to smooth things over again, somehow. Yet she had to think of her future—and Nick’s.
Soon, Logan and Blossom would have their new baby to care for. She wouldn’t let Nick become an afterthought, as Olivia had years ago. She knew Logan wouldn’t want that to happen, but it could happen all the same.
She had to find another solution.
* * *
WITH A SIGH, Sawyer answered the phone in the ranch house kitchen. He was alone in the house and hoped Doc Baxter would get back to town soon. Who had given what seemed like most of the population of Barren, many of whom he didn’t know, the phone number for the Circle H?
Well, of course they’d know the number, he thought. Sam and Logan were popular in town, a big part of the close-knit community. And since Doc had left for Vegas and Sawyer’s impromptu lunch with Finn Donovan, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing, or so it seemed to him.
Usually, he let Sam answer or those people left a message: someone’s toddler had a cold; a woman thought she might be pregnant; another’s rash hadn’t gone away despite the steroid cream Doc had prescribed before he left town.
None of the calls, thank heaven, had been emergencies, and Sawyer had returned them, but now—
“There’s blood all over the place,” the caller said after he’d identified himself. “Can you come out to my ranch? Stupid accident, a lapse on my part—”
Sawyer tensed. “I’d suggest you head for the ER at Farrier General.”
“We went there the other day when my wife ruptured her Achilles tendon,” Fred Miller said. “She can’t drive. Plus, we had to wait five hours before anyone saw her.”
Sawyer searched for another option that didn’t include him. He had no idea where the Bar B&J Ranch was located, except that it was near Farrier. He had horses yet to feed tonight and he was bone weary. All afternoon, he’d chased bison cows around the Circle H, corralled late calves for branding and had even spent half an hour working Cyclone on a lunge line for the first time. That hadn’t gone well and every muscle in his body hurt.
He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Can you call a neighbor?”
“Already did. None of them answered.”
Here he was, thousands of miles from Kedar, determined not to make yet another mistake, as he had more recently with Olivia’s son, incurring her wrath, but... “How bad is the arm?”
“I’ve gone through two towels already.”
“Mr. Miller, you or your wife need to call an ambulance.”
“Didn’t you get the message? I can’t afford another visit. Doc never charges me what the ER did.”
Sawyer rethought the issue. Cash flow, health insurance, the cost of medicine could be a big problem for ranchers, especially smaller outfits. It sounded like Fred Miller was one of them. Sawyer softened his tone. “Then you need to get to the clinic here in Barren. That’ll be cheaper than the ER. I know it’s farther from you than the hospital, but it’s your best altern—”
“I told you. I can’t drive, either.” The man’s voice faded. “I feel kinda faint.”
That alarmed Sawyer. Similar to kids, who sometimes masked their symptoms, ranchers were well-known for downplaying any injury. Years ago Sawyer had seen his father do a day’s work with one arm in a makeshift sling, paying no mind to the powerful animal that had nearly broken his arm. Years later, at his clinic in Kedar, Sawyer had seen more of the same, local people who kept going when they should have been in a hospital.
This guy sounded no different. Sawyer hoped he didn’t have an artery spurting. At least he’d called for help...
He asked a few questions, then said, “Listen to me. Sit down. Put your head between your knees and keep pressure on the wound. Your wife there with you?”
“Yeah, but frankly, I think she’s closer to passing out than I am. What’s wrong with you? Are you a doctor or ain’t you?”
“Look, I—”
No excuses. None left. It was one thing to turn Nick’s care over to Doc and the other physicians at the hospital then make his retreat as quickly as he could. Nick had been in better hands, but this man coul
d be bleeding out while he spoke to Sawyer, and he seemed too stubborn to do what he was told.
Hanging up after he got directions to the Bar B&J, Sawyer snatched a few basic medical supplies from the bathroom, left Sam a hasty note saying he’d be back in a while and to eat without him—then borrowed the newest ranch pickup, which had a built-in GPS device.
On his way to town, he phoned Willy to ask him to feed horses in his place. Apparently, Sawyer was going to make a house call.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled up at the ranch. The gate stood open.
Fred Miller met him at the door to the house, his arm wrapped in a towel. Blood had seeped through the white terry cloth and his face looked deathly gray. “Thanks for comin’,” he said, pushing the door open and leaning against the frame to prop himself up. “I kind of wondered if you would. After that mess with Grey Wilson’s cattle, and all.”
Sawyer gave him a blank look. “I wasn’t here,” he said. Grey had told him about the theft but few details. Had Miller been involved?
“My nephew Calvin and his friend Derek...rustled part of that herd. Hid them here at my place. I know you and the Wilsons are longtime friends.”
Sawyer didn’t need to hear what part Miller had played in the theft. All he needed was to inspect the man’s wound. If he was lucky, he’d only need some gauze and a good-sized bandage.
Fred Miller wasn’t that lucky.
“This needs stitches,” Sawyer told him, bent over Miller’s wounded arm at the kitchen table. His wife was nowhere in sight.
“You can sew, can’t you? You’re a doctor.”
“I can, but—” I won’t, he wanted to say. This wasn’t a simple slice but jagged and rimmed with dirt. The repair would take skill, and he couldn’t fix the arm, not here. “How did this happen, Fred?”
“Bull pushed me into the fence. Pinned me. The arm caught in the barbed wire. When he dragged me off—this arm just kept tearing.”
In spite of himself, Sawyer’s stomach rolled. He’d seen the worst wounds after the landslide in Kedar, tried to fix most of them, and he didn’t mind the sight of blood, even saw it as a challenge to stop the flow. But his short time at the Circle H had helped to blunt his former enthusiasm, and for sure he didn’t trust himself. “When was your last tetanus shot?” Without one, Miller could die.
He looked perplexed. “Don’t rightly know. Some years ago, I suspect.”
Which could mean never, Sawyer thought. Who knew if this man ever went to a doctor? He might be more likely to call the vet for a sick cow or calf and ignore his own health like Sam did.
“I can’t do this,” Sawyer said. “We need to get that cut properly cleaned and stitched under sterile conditions.” It wasn’t his medical judgment he doubted now—it was clear what Miller needed—but his technical skills. What if the rancher got an infection, or suffered complications from blood loss or shock while Sawyer sewed him up? He’d worked in conditions worse than this in Kedar, but the ordeal with Khalil, and then Nick, had apparently eroded too much of Sawyer’s confidence for him to go on.
He helped Fred Miller up from his chair. “I’m taking you to the clinic. The wait will be shorter there. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll cover it.”
CHAPTER NINE
“WELL? WHAT DO you think?” Olivia squirmed while Barney Caldwell studied her numbers. As the chief loan officer of the Barren Cattlemen’s Bank, he had agreed to meet with her the morning after she’d talked to Logan, and Olivia didn’t want to wait.
If Barney okayed the amount she was applying for, she could take her revised offer to Ted Anderson, then hope he accepted her slightly higher number before someone else showed up to buy his shop. She could cover the damage Nick had caused—also using his chore money to prove the point about taking responsibility—and worry about Logan’s reaction to her move later.
Barney gazed at her across his broad desk, a lock of his nut-brown hair falling over one too-small eye. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or a family photo on the polished walnut desktop, and Olivia thought the folder she’d brought with her looked lonely.
“I admire your grit, Libby.”
Olivia tried not to frown. Logan and Grey might call her by the shortened form of her name, but she didn’t know Barney that well, and the familiarity bothered her. She sensed he’d never speak like that to Grey, with whom he’d been strictly businesslike when he’d denied her brother a loan.
Barney glanced down at the documents she’d brought with her, focusing on her most recent profit-and-loss statement, thumbing through the pages again. “I was sorry when you and Logan split up. But you’ve made a new life for yourself—something I’ve never had the courage to do,” he added with a tinge of color in his face that spread across his cheeks and stained them a dull red.
He cleared his throat. “However. Although you posted a tidy profit here last quarter, I doubt the bank can authorize further funds for your expansion. The dollar value you put on the business doesn’t square with what you’re asking. Your margins are lower than they should be.”
Olivia folded her hands. “I know. I’m trying to remedy that, but the antiques business goes up and down. Trying to determine what the market will bear in terms of price for the items I buy and sell is always, um, something of a guessing game.”
“You sell beautiful things.” He cleared his throat a second time. “My mother bought a Tiffany lamp at your little store only last month.”
That’s Olivia Wilson Antiques, not some “little store,” she thought. Was he trying to demean her?
“Yes, I remember.” Barney’s mother was a pillar of the community, and she liked everyone to recognize that. She’d been quite a challenge, but they’d finally settled on a sum for the lamp that pleased Mrs. Caldwell, if not Olivia. If she didn’t miss her guess, Barney’s mother controlled his life. He’d never married. “She chose a stunning example of that studio’s work.”
“She’s very happy with it.” He half smiled. “I’m sure she’d lend you this amount in a heartbeat. However,” he said again, “she’s not the vice president of loans here.” Barney shook his head. “I’m sorry, but unless you can bring me better numbers, Libby, I have to decline your request.”
Olivia’s jaw tightened. “That seems to be an ongoing issue with my family.”
“You mean Grey?” Barney looked toward the front windows of the bank as if he expected her brother to be standing there. “I’m glad he’s been able to turn Wilson Cattle around—at least as far as getting his stock returned, I hear—but I had no choice. His figures didn’t add up for me, either.”
Olivia frowned. Grey had told her he and their father intended to reapply for a loan here, and Everett expected to get it. Just like their father to renege on another promise. He and Liza were back in Dallas, which had made Olivia breathe easier, but she hated to think he’d let down Grey this time.
Barney pushed back his swivel chair. He stood, indicating their appointment was over. “I do regret having to signal this decision. If you’d still like to fill out the application form—”
“No, I understand. Thanks for your time, Barney.”
He walked her to the door. Several tellers looked up, and with surprise Olivia saw that one of them was Susie, her former babysitter. She couldn’t blame her, really, for seeking greener pastures. The bank even smelled of money. Susie had graduated from high school in June. She had to think of her future—as did Olivia. She gave Susie a quick wave and mouthed hello.
Barney held on to the door handle. He glanced around, then leaned closer to Olivia, his voice lowered. “Annabelle’s special at the diner tonight is her always-excellent chicken fried steak. Would you join me? Mother has her bridge club.”
Olivia was stunned. Was he putting the moves on her? If she went to dinner with him, would Barney change his mind and rubber-stamp her applicati
on for the loan? She doubted that and the thought shamed Olivia. Maybe she was only flattering herself. And he was lonely.
Barney seemed to notice her hesitation. “Or, if that doesn’t appeal to you, we could try the new menu at the café.”
“I’m sorry, Barney. My seven-year-old is waiting for my ‘special’ chili and corn bread tonight.”
The reminder that she wasn’t exactly free and had to think of her son first did its job. Barney opened the door and gestured for her to step out onto the sidewalk.
“Maybe next time, then,” he said.
* * *
SAWYER KICKED A metal water bucket in the barn aisle. The cut on Fred Miller’s arm had required more stitches yesterday than Sawyer had expected, and he hadn’t been impressed with the clinic doctor’s work. Still, Max Garrett had been there and willing to take over, even if the guy seemed in over his head and claimed to be flummoxed by the long hours he had to put in during Doc’s absence.
Fred would have an impressive scar, but at least he was on antibiotics to prevent infection, he’d gotten that needed tetanus shot, and who was Sawyer to criticize? He’d felt like an idiot walking into the clinic on Main Street, despite knowing he couldn’t handle the case—unless he used Doc’s keys to open his office on Cottonwood Street.
Sawyer had resisted the urge. In addition to his fears about making another mistake, he worried one stop at Doc’s would lead to his keeping office hours until Baxter got back.
Earlier today, Sawyer had called Miller to make sure he was okay. He’d called the others, too, checking on the toddler’s cold (better), that rash (improving) and the might-be-pregnant woman (she still hadn’t taken a test). Miller had been the most appreciative, but frustration simmered inside Sawyer.
He’d done what he could; what he’d been comfortable doing. And Miller had gotten the treatment he needed. So why did he feel as if he’d failed again?
He took another swipe at the metal bucket. It rang like a gong and half the horses along the aisle danced in their stalls, ears laid flat against their heads. Cyclone let out a definite stallion whinny and Sawyer winced. He knew better than to rile them up just because he was frustrated. Or something.
