Squire was in the hospital, Tristan had written in his messy scrawl. He’d had a heart attack, and Emily should get to Wyoming as soon as she could. He’d tried calling her on the mobile but hadn’t been able to get through. Eventually he’d gone ahead and flown home.
Of course he’d not been able to reach her on the mobile. Emily looked over at the bag she’d dropped just inside the door. The mobile was safely inside the bag. She had taken it, as Tristan had insisted. Even if she’d been within range, with a dead battery, the phone had been useless.
Brushing her hair out of her face, she tried to think. She had to pack a few things to take with her. She had to let her office know that she’d be away for a while. She had to—
Please, oh please, oh please, let Squire be okay.
She reached for the phone and punched out the main number at the ranch. It would be nearly midnight there. She let it ring and ring, but no one picked up. Which probably meant that no one was at the big house. They were all at the hospital.
Her fingers trembled, but she managed to hang up and dial the airline. She booked herself on the last flight out that night. Which left her about twenty-five minutes to clean up and leave for the airport.
The shortage of time was a blessing. It didn’t leave her any time to worry. But once she was on the plane…
The plane was only about a third full, and most of those people had tucked pillows under their heads, preparing to sleep all the way to Dallas. Emily studied the phone that was tucked in the back of the middle seat in front of her. Warily, she removed the phone from the seat and read the instructions. In minutes, it was ringing. After about thirty rings, however, she gave up. Twice more, before the plane landed in Dallas, she tried phoning the house, to no avail. Then, while sitting in the airport she thought of calling the hospital itself.
Stupid, stupid. She hurried over to the bank of pay phones and got out her calling card. It took two different calls, but she finally connected with the hospital’s information desk and was informed that Squire was in ICU. His condition wasn’t available.
Emily closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against her bent forearm lying across the top of the two-sided enclosure. Nausea clawed at her stomach. “Could I speak with the nurse’s station in ICU, at least?”
“One moment,” the disembodied voice told her, then the line clicked several times. She was treated, ever so briefly, to a moment of piped-in music. The line clicked once again. And the phone went dead. Rather, the connection went dead, since the dial tone told her very neatly that the phone itself was still operating.
Emily huffed, and glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. She had about twenty minutes before her plane should be boarding. She began punching in the numbers once more that would connect her to the hospital.
“ICU, please.” No more wasting time with information desks.
After just a few rings, the phone was picked up at the nurses’ station. “This is Emily Nichols. You have a patient there, Squire Clay. Could you tell me what his condition is please?”
“Just a moment.” On hold again. “Are you immediate family?”
Emily thought she might throw up right there. She swallowed. “Yes.” It was close enough to the truth.
“Just a moment.” Hold, once more. “Ma’am? Mr. Clay’s condition is critical—”
Oh, God, please—
“—but stable. He has some family in the waiting room. Would you like me to connect you?”
Emily barely had time to answer before the nurse had transferred her call and it was ringing again. And ringing. And ringing.
Finally it was picked up. But the woman who answered told Emily that there was no one in the waiting room beside herself. Though she did say that there had been a few men in and out earlier. Emily thanked the woman and hung up. She glanced at the clock again and tried dialing the house once more. But her efforts were futile.
Swallowing a wad of tears, Emily gathered her tote bag up and returned to the gate just in time to board.
The morning sun was steadily rising when Emily finally neared the main gate of the Clay ranch. Her tired eyes absently noticed the new iron sign proclaiming the boundary of the Double-C, and it was second nature for her to drive up next to the big metal mailbox alongside the road. She reached through the window and pulled out a large stack of envelopes, packages and circulars, which she dumped on the seat beside her. The newspaper box was on a sturdy post next to the mailbox, and she inched forward in the car and with her fingers snagged the bound-up paper. Tossing it onto the mail, she turned sharply and drove through the open gate.
Dust billowed and rolled behind her car as she left the pavement for the hard-packed dirt road, and she rolled up the windows and turned on the air-conditioning. She still had a few miles to go.
When the buildings came into sight, the car was covered with a film of tan dust. Emily coasted to a stop and for just a moment she didn’t worry about Squire. Didn’t worry about Jefferson. She didn’t worry about anything. She just sat, her arms folded across the steering wheel, as she looked through the slick sheen of threatening tears.
Directly ahead stood the big house. Its sturdy stone and wood lines meandered from the central two-story structure to the right and the left with the additions that had been added here and there over the years. A porch ran the entire width of the front, and geraniums bloomed from the window boxes. Lilac bushes clustered at the south corner of the house. A grouping of aspens stood off to the side in the circular lawn situated in front of the house. Even from her distance, she could see the golden retriever sleeping in the soft green grass beneath the trees.
She was home.
She blinked and took a long, deep breath. She drove up around the circle drive, parking between the lawn and the house. The car door squeaked faintly as she pushed it open, and she climbed out, arching her back. She looked around, but all was silent. It wasn’t a usual sight for the Double-C. Even the dog didn’t raise her head.
The worry was back, and she grabbed the mail and paper, shut the car door and headed for the house, automatically by passing the wide double-doored front entry. Her tennis shoes crunched over the gravel drive then sank into the soft green grass surrounding the house as she headed past the lilac bushes to the rear.
She entered through the mudroom, where the wooden screen door slapped closed behind her with an achingly familiar sound. Cowboy hats hung from the rack on the wall, and there were several sets of cowboy boots lying in the mudroom all in varying states, from dusty to muddy, to—Her nose wrinkled and she pushed open the door to the kitchen.
“Well, there she is.” Matthew Clay rose from the oblong oak table that had held center stage of the spacious kitchen for as long as Emily could remember. He swung his long leg over his chair and reached Emily in just two steps before engulfing her in his big hug. “Tris said you’d make your way here one way or the other.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and lifted his head to study her with his nearly translucent blue eyes. “How ya doing, peanut?”
She shrugged, sharing his feeling smile. “About the same as you, I suppose.” He let her go, and she tossed the mail onto the table before heading for the commercial-size steel refrigerator across the room. “How’s Squire?” She pulled out a cold bottle of apple juice and drank nearly half of it in one swallow.
Matthew ran his hand over his closely cropped blond hair. “He’s alive,” he said bluntly.
Emily’s teeth chattered before she clenched her jaw. She looked away from Matthew’s piercing eyes and stared blindly out the wide uncurtained windows looking over the recently mown backyard. She swallowed the lump blocking her throat. “Is he going to stay that way?”
“Damn straight he is,” another voice said.
Emily looked over her shoulder to the doorway leading into the dining room. “Hi, Daniel.” She set her apple juice on the counter and went over to receive another Clay hug.
“Hey, babycakes,” the fourth Clay son said as he swung her
into his arms. He planted a kiss on her lips before letting her feet once more find the floor. “Don’t you worry about Squire, hear? He’s a stubborn mule and not about to leave this earth before someone starts giving him grandkids to spoil.”
Matthew snorted and Daniel shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it? ’Cept it’ll probably be up to Em here to have the babies. Since none of us seem inclined to procreate.”
Emily’s smile faded at the corners. She tilted her head, and her hair slid forward as she retrieved her apple juice. She swallowed the rest of the juice and cradled the squat round bottle in the palm of her hand. “Does Sawyer know about Squire?” Does Jefferson?
Daniel nodded and plucked the coffeepot from the stove. He filled his mug and topped off Matthew’s before returning the blackened enamel pot to the stove. He seemed about to say something, but he just nodded again and sank down into one of the sturdy chairs at the table. Matthew joined him at the table.
“Where’s Tristan?”
“Right here.” He appeared through the same doorway as Daniel had. He bussed her cheek and poured himself a mug of coffee. “How was Mexico?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“I tried to get hold of you.”
“I know.” Emily grimaced. “The battery was dead,” she admitted. “If only I’d checked it…I could have…”
“Could have been here a day earlier, is all,” Tristan finished. “And Squire’s been unconscious the whole time. Don’t sweat it, Em. Sawyer’s plane didn’t get in until last night, and then—”
“We all spent most of the night at the hospital, cooling our heels in the damn waiting room,” Daniel put in.
“I tried calling both places.” Emily told them of her efforts to get hold of somebody. “Once I landed, I couldn’t decide whether to go to the hospital or come here first.” It was sheer cowardice that kept her from going straight to the hospital.
“We’ll drive down to the hospital a little later this morning,” Matthew told her. “It’ll give you a chance to rest up while we finish off a few chores.”
“Where is everybody?” Emily asked. “I expected you all to be in the middle of combining.”
“We’ve got a crew coming in day after tomorrow. Between trips to the hospital and the work around here, we’re keeping busy. Joe’s a big help.”
Emily knew Matthew was referring to Joe Greene, the foreman he’d hired a couple years ago. Joe and his wife, Maggie, who served as housekeeper and cook, lived in the tidy brick house situated on the far side of the ranch buildings.
“Speaking of chores…” Matthew lifted his coffee mug again for a long drink, then plunked it onto the table. It seemed to be a signal for his brothers to also rise as there was a general exodus.
Even Tristan, computer hacker extraordinaire, followed.
“Tristan?” Emily called him just before he disappeared after his older brothers. “Squire…you said he’s been unconscious? Is he—” she broke off.
“He had a triple bypass, sweet pea. He’s in tough shape. But he’s a tough old man. And the tests they’ve run are promising.” He smiled encouragingly, even though his eyes couldn’t quite match the smile. “The best thing for him is the rest he’s getting. And knowing we’re all here for him.” He smiled again and went after his brothers.
With the absence of the men, the kitchen loomed large, empty and silent. Emily hugged her arms to her and rubbed her elbows as she looked around her. The room hadn’t changed much since the day Squire had brought her home. She’d been terrified. Feeling like her world had ended.
Squire had brought her into the kitchen, and the boys had all been sitting around that big oak table. All except Sawyer, anyway. He’d already gone off on his own by then. But the rest of them had been sitting there. Shoveling down their supper with a small semblance of manners, even while they boisterously tried to top each other’s accounting of their day. They’d eyed her curiously for a few moments. Then Jefferson had pushed out the empty seat between him and Tristan, and Emily had climbed onto the chair. She’d been a part of their family ever since.
Swallowing, Emily ran her fingertips over the chair at the head of the table. Squire’s.
“Seems strange for the old man not to be sitting there telling us how to live our lives, doesn’t it?”
Emily whirled. She smiled faintly at Sawyer, nodding. “Very strange.” She glanced at the eldest Clay son. His hair was going silver at the temples, and he very much resembled the father they spoke of. The day men were nothing if not striking. “It seems we’ve all been called back to the ranch,” she murmured. Where was Jefferson?
Sawyer passed by for the coffeepot, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Where is everybody?”
“Chores. Sawyer…”
He turned, raising his eyebrows as she hesitated.
Emily bit her lip, flushing. “Never mind.”
He turned back to pouring a mug of coffee and grabbed a saucer from the cupboard. “Spit it out, Emily.”
“You sound like Squire.”
His wide shoulders rose and fell. “So I’ve been told.” He laughed shortly. With his usual economy of movements, he sat at the table and poured the coffee into the saucer.
Emily closed her fingers over the top of one of the chairs. “You know everything about everybody…”
Sawyer’s lips twitched. “Well, not quite.”
“But, you uh, well…oh, hell. Do you know where Jefferson is? He left San Diego just last week, and he was in terrible shape, Sawyer. He wouldn’t tell me…not that I expected him to, of course, I mean, he never does…but he didn’t even talk to Tristan…and I’m just really—”
“Whoa!” Sawyer lifted his hand and she fell silent. “Take a breath before you pass out. And yes, I do know where Jefferson is. He’s here.”
Emily caught her breath. “Then he did come here when he left California.”
“No. He didn’t get here until last night. He flew in with me.”
“Then where—”
“You’ll have to ask him that.” He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of the saucer.
Emily looked away from Sawyer. “Is he, uh, in his room?”
He shrugged. “Have no idea.”
The screen door to the kitchen squeaked and Daniel appeared. “Hey, Em…oh, great, Sawyer, come out here for a minute, will ya? That damned horny horse of Matt’s kicked out half his stall trying to get to the mares and we need your help for a sec.”
Emily followed the men out. But she turned toward her rental car to retrieve her suitcase when they headed for the horse barn. She’d have time to grab a shower and freshen up before they went to the hospital. She also needed to call her office, knowing that the hasty message she’d left on Stuart’s voice mail had barely been coherent. She tried focusing her thoughts on the simple tasks. But her tangled thoughts were on Squire. And Jefferson. Lord, how was she going to face Jefferson?
As she headed back to the house, a breeze kicked up. She paused for a moment, squinting against the dust swirling through the air, and grabbed her hair with her free hand. In a moment the breeze had passed and she let go of her hair, shaking the bangs out of her eyes. She supposed it was the faint squeak of the screen door that caught her attention. Or maybe it was just instinct.
When she looked up, Jefferson was slouched in the doorway. He wore jeans faded white, and a raggedy beige cotton-knit shirt clung softly to his shoulders, which despite his thinness, were as wide as ever. His wet hair was dark and combed starkly away from the sharp angles of his face.
He was beautiful.
Emily’s fingers tightened on the suitcase handle. Part of her wanted to throw the luggage back in the car and hightail it out of there. The other part, the stronger part, wanted to run into his arms and never let him go.
Hardly breathing, she climbed the two steps into the mudroom and was silently relieved when he shifted, giving her room to pass. There would be no “Clay hug” from Jefferson, brotherly or otherwise. She c
ouldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not without embarrassing herself, anyway. She stepped across the mudroom and into the kitchen.
“Emily.”
She swallowed, schooled her expression and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”
His own expression was inscrutable. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said evenly. “You?” She watched a muscle tick in his jaw.
“Fine,” he returned.
He didn’t add anything, and Emily turned once more to head upstairs to the room she’d used since childhood.
“Emily—”
Her shoulders tightened, and like a coward she pretended not to hear as she hurried up the stairs, the suitcases bumping her legs.
Jefferson watched her hair swish against her back as she raced up the stairs. Her denim jeans were well washed and lovingly fit her curves. He stood at the foot of the stairs until long after she’d disappeared. Until he heard the sound of water rushing through the pipes, and he knew she was taking a shower.
The knowledge brought all sorts of visions to his mind. None of them decent. And none of them wise, particularly when he was under Squire’s roof. Biting off a curse, he went back to the kitchen and limped his way outside.
Two hours later, Emily propped her hands on her hips and glared at Tristan. “Why on earth shouldn’t I drive myself to the hospital? I’ve been driving these roads for half of my life! I’m no more distraught over Squire than you are. And I’m not likely to drive myself into a ditch because I’m worried. Good Lord, Tristan, I managed to get myself to Wyoming without your overbearing assistance—”
“Stop arguing,” Matthew ordered abruptly, walking up behind them. “You’ve been sniping at each other for ten minutes. Tris, you know darn well there isn’t room for all of us to go in one vehicle, so quit bugging Emily. She can go to the hospital however she wants, and she’s already said she doesn’t want to be cooped up in the Blazer with the rest of us. She could drive one of the pickups if she wanted.”
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