When Dreams Collide

by Brenda Sinclair

  Dusty frowned. She sounded more optimistic about this than he had. Wonderful things never happened to him. Well, there was that lottery win, but that was years ago. He refused to believe he would walk out of the hospital any time soon.

  He simply didn’t believe in miracles.

  ****

  Halloween was two days away. When he woke up this morning, he was greeted by his new roommates: a scarecrow and a couple of ghosts. A foil-lined, hollowed-out pumpkin was filled with assorted candy bars and other sugary treats. The decorations and sweets were Susan’s handiwork, no doubt.

  Dusty sat in bed, rotating one foot and then the other. He’d progressed significantly from the day he’d first felt tingling in his toes. Now, there was some feeling in his legs as well. Some. Dusty grimaced, recalling his dismal failure yesterday, attempting to stand and bear some of his weight on his legs. Dr. Carter remained optimistic, but he didn’t share his physician’s sunny outlook. He’d always agreed with the old idiom ‘expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed’.

  At least, Susan had returned to work during the day, but she still hung around the hospital in the evening. Apparently, last night, carrying out a midnight reconnaissance mission to plant unauthorized Halloween paraphernalia. He’d eaten two chocolate bars, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet.

  Dr. Carter and the therapists were meeting with him this morning to discuss the next phase of his recovery. Against his better judgment, he’d given Susan and Brock the okay to be present.

  “Hello, Dusty. How’s my patient today?”

  Dusty glanced up when Ms. Walters walked in. “Good morning. I’m okay I guess.”

  Mrs. Flanagan had wished him good luck before departing just prior to the shift change. He suspected the older woman was nearing exhaustion, having misjudged the duration of his hospital confinement when she accepted this assignment.

  He’d spent hours chatting with Mrs. Flanagan, a kind-hearted widow who admitted she loved caring for someone since she’d lost her husband two years ago. She worked as a temporary private nurse to supplement her pension and to keep her finger on the pulse of current medical practices. In her late sixties, she told him she kept her body well-toned from taking the yoga and Pilates classes held at a senior center near her home. If he was ever discharged from the hospital, he’d actually miss her company.

  “Let me check and record your vitals one more time before Dr. Carter arrives,” suggested Ms. Walters, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

  “Why do we never engage in idle conversation?” inquired Dusty. He couldn’t decide whether she wasn’t interested in mixing duty with socializing, or if she wasn’t interested in cowboys, or just men in general.

  “I prefer to nurse my patients on a strictly professional basis only,” she answered.

  He certainly couldn’t fault her on her work skills. She was an exceptional nurse, anticipating his every need before he did. And the tall, striking redhead probably caught the attention of every man she encountered, whether a patient on their death bed or just a visitor to the hospital.

  Ms. Walters stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

  “I suppose that’s understandable. Otherwise, your male patients would be hitting on you constantly.” Dusty grinned, talking around the thermometer. “Not me, of course.”

  “Keep your lips closed and no talking,” ordered Ms. Walters.

  Dusty tolerated the procedure for what seemed like the millionth time since he was admitted. He’d lost count of the number of times someone was poking him or prodding him or checking vitals or changing IV bags.

  Thank goodness, he’d always carried medical insurance – you never knew when a cowboy would be injured – and he couldn’t imagine the cost of his hospital stay so far. Mrs. Flanagan had warned him there would be further rehabilitation once he was discharged. Dusty could well afford private medical care, and he refused to check into some rehabilitation facility. He wanted to go home. And then he realized that if he sold the ranch back to Brock, he wouldn’t have a home. Maybe he should start looking for an apartment in Helena. He’d ask Mrs. Flanagan to bring him a newspaper tomorrow.

  “Good morning, Dusty.” Dr. Carter charged into his room, three therapists and another nurse followed close behind. “This evaluation will determine whether or not you should be discharged from hospital. Of course, there will be extensive rehabilitation ahead of you until you regain full use of your lower limbs.”

  “If I regain full use…”

  “I’m confident you will. Your prognosis is for full recovery, whether or not you believe it yet.”

  Dusty sniffed, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Brock and Susan slipped into the room.

  “Are we late?” inquired Susan.

  “No. We haven’t gotten started yet. Dusty is facing prolonged rehabilitation and extensive physical therapy to regain full use of his body.”

  “Are you optimistic he’ll walk again?” Brock stood hands on hips. “I’ve been telling him to wait and see what lies ahead, but he hasn’t heard a word of it.”

  “With the swelling receding more each day and the remarkable progress made so far, I’d say there’s a good chance for a full recovery.” Dr. Carter peeked over his glasses. “Of course, we can never be one hundred percent certain of anything until the situation plays itself out.”

  “So your prognosis is nothing more than an educated guess,” said Dusty, snidely.

  “Put your pessimism back in your pocket, son, and dig out a little faith. The doctor seems to think you’ll be good as new some day, so until I know otherwise, I’m assuming he’s right.” Brock locked eyes with Dusty, daring him to disagree. “Once you’re back home and enjoying the fresh air on the ranch, sleeping in your own bed, your rapid recovery will astound everyone.”

  “I won’t be returning…”

  “Oh, don’t doubt it for a minute. All the arrangements have been made, and the second the doc here gives the okay, you’ll be home on the ranch so fast your head will spin.” Brock nodded at the doctor, encouraging his agreement.

  “If this evaluation proves positive, I intend to discharge you today, Dusty.”

  Dusty gaped. He met the doctor’s eyes and then Brock’s. Susan stood beaming from ear-to-ear. Why couldn’t anyone see they were just setting themselves up for disappointment?

  “Get on with it,” ordered Dusty. “I doubt I’ll be going anywhere.”

  Brock and Susan were whisked out of the room prior to the examination. And then Dusty endured dozens of questions, several different tests, and a second humiliating failed attempt at standing on his own two feet.

  “That was good, Dusty. You managed to stand for a full five seconds before your legs gave out. You only managed three seconds last time.”

  “Five seconds? Are you serious? Only proves I’ll never walk again.” Dusty crossed his arms and glared at the physical therapist from his hospital bed.

  “Baby steps. Supporting your own weight, then shuffling your feet forward, then taking actual steps, then walking without a walker or cane, eventually running. It’s not going to happen overnight, but I’m confident it will happen.” The stocky black man resembled a drill sergeant more than a therapist.

  Ms. Walters poked her head into the hallway. Susan and Brock were waved back into the room. They clasped hands, waiting for the verdict.

  “In light of the remarkable progress you’ve made, Dusty, I’m prepared to sign your release papers this morning. You’re discharged from this hospital.”

  Brock and Susan cheered and performed an impromptu dance. Ms. Walters stood at Dusty’s bedside, and an uncharacteristically broad smile creased her face.

  The therapists wished Dusty good luck, and one of them slipped a business card to Dusty recommending a therapist who worked in private practice.

  Brock shook Dr. Carter’s hand, enthusiastically. “When can we pack him up and transport him to the ranch?”

  “Give me an hour to process his
release and for you to make arrangements, and then Dusty can leave.”

  “Done. We have an ambulance booked to transport him to the ranch. You can toss that card in the garbage, Dusty. I’ve already hired a physical therapist and Susan has agreed to help out, too.”

  “No!” Dusty’s sharp outburst stunned everyone in the room.

  “No to what?” inquired Brock.

  “Susan won’t be coming to the ranch. I’ve cut ties with her, if you’ll recall. If you think I require help, I’ll hire Ms. Walters.” Dusty met the beautiful young woman’s eyes and smiled.

  “That’s fine with me. I can continue my employment with you, Dusty. If Mr. Branigan agrees to…”

  “You’ll be working for me and paid by me, directly,” said Dusty, spelling out the terms of her employ. “I’ll advise Mr. Branigan of the new arrangements.”

  “Then it’s settled. We live in a single story ranch house so there are no stairs to worry about, and Ms. Walters can occupy the small spare room off the kitchen. I’ve had a fellow install a few modifications in all the bathrooms and revamped your ensuite shower. You’ll find this arrangement will work beautifully, Dusty.” Brock smiled. “And I’ve hidden my checkbook, so don’t even think about ridding yourself of that ranch. You’re coming home, son.”

  *

  Susan pasted a smile on her face for Dusty’s benefit, even though he’d crushed her spirit by reminding everyone that he’d cut all ties with her. Brock appeared delighted at the prospect of having Dusty home and insisted the arrangement with Ms. Walters and the therapist he’d hired would work out beautifully. The home preparations sounded perfect, probably something he’d done for his wife when she’d come home from the cancer hospital to die.

  But Susan was anything but thrilled with the arrangement, especially the part about the gorgeous Ms. Walters moving to the ranch to care for Dusty 24/7. She’d intended to care for Dusty herself, even arranged to utilize her last month of paid vacation to do it. Ms. Walters looked more like a fashion model than a registered nurse.

  Having her at Dusty’s bedside was the last thing Susan wanted.

  Chapter 14

  Two hours later, Dusty arrived by ambulance back on the ranch, and he couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place in his absence. The corral he’d been designing was completed, and a second one, as well, and there’d been painting done to the bunkhouse exterior. He spotted a familiar gelding delightfully prancing around the perimeter of the nearest corral.

  “What’s Midnight Star doing here?”

  Brock beamed at Dusty. “I gave Jeremy and David a tour of the place while you were in the coma. I outlined your plans for the place, and the brothers were duly impressed.”

  “Did you mention my plans were just useless dreams now that I’ll never walk again?” questioned Dusty, disgust in his voice.

  “Oh cow poop. You’ll walk again. Give it time.” Brock watched the ambulance attendant wheel out the stretcher. “Jeremy sent that horse over here a week ago. Something about it being the sorriest excuse for rodeo stock he’d ever bred. Mentioned a mutant gene had ruined him. Mind you, he was grinning like a maniac when he said it. Told me Midnight Star would be perfect for trail rides, and you should consider the horse a gift for all your years of dedication to the Lazy B.”

  Dusty fought the urge to tear up. At least, someone at the ranch appreciated his years of hard labor. Hell would ice over before Arthur would admit as much. “So we’ve got one horse. Doesn’t exactly say ‘horse ranch’, does it?”

  “Actually, I hired four new staff members, and we’re boarding about two dozen horses now.” Brock glanced at his watch. “Being a Saturday, most of the owners are out riding their horses in the pastures and beyond. Most of them probably won’t be back before three or four o’clock when dusk settles in.”

  Dusty gaped. “Two dozen horses boarded already? How did word spread so fast?”

  “Well, son, there’s this thing called the internet. Seems if you get the word out to folks, they contact you and you can do business with each other. That website you were designing is now up and running. And it’s the dang handiest thing.” Brock chuckled.

  Dusty shook his head. “Get me in the house, please. I can’t take much more of this guy,” he ordered the ambulance attendant.

  “Right away, Mr. MacFarland.”

  ****

  Susan picked up the phone on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Hi, it’s Jeremy.”

  Jeremy and Amanda were flown by David from the Lazy B to Helena to stay with Amanda’s parents last week, waiting for their baby to arrive. Her due date was November 8 and today was the 5th.

  “Oh, God. Is it time?” Susan scrambled out of bed and started pacing her bedroom floor. She glanced at the bedside clock. Two a.m.

  “Amanda was just admitted to St. Peter’s. She’s in labor, and I expect the baby will be here by morning.” Jeremy blew out his breath. “Whoa! This is happening so fast. She’s not due for another three days.”

  “Nobody told the baby that. Hang in there. I’ll meet you at St. Peter’s as soon as I can get there.”

  “Thanks, Susan.” Jeremy discontinued the call.

  Twenty minutes later, Susan charged through the main doors of St. Peter’s Hospital. An overpowering feeling of déjà vu struck, as she recalled rushing to Dusty’s bedside not that long go.

  She’d spent so many days walking the halls in the hospital the last few weeks that she rushed directly to the maternity area where Amanda would be and walked up to the nursing station desk. “I’m looking for Amanda Branigan.”

  “Mrs. Branigan delivered a few minutes ago. She should…”

  “She had the baby already?” Susan grasped the counter to steady herself.

  “Yes. If you follow this hallway and take the first right, you should find her family waiting there.”

  “Thanks,” Susan called over her shoulder as she raced down the hallway.

  She rounded the corner as directed and immediately spotted Amanda’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Bailey,” she called as she continued toward them.

  “Susan!” Mrs. Bailey beamed. “I’m a grandmother again. Amanda had a little boy. I’m so happy that she’s okay and the baby is healthy. Jeremy just popped out here for a minute and then disappeared again.”

  “Did they name him yet? How much did he weigh?” Susan hugged Mrs. Bailey and shook Mr. Bailey’s hand.

  “We haven’t been told anything yet.” Mrs. Bailey wrung her hands. “We’re just waiting until we’re allowed to see Amanda.”

  “I can’t believe the baby came so quickly.”

  “I think Amanda was in labor at home a lot longer than she let on. We weren’t in the hospital a half hour before Jeremy dashed out here and told us he had a son.” Mrs. Bailey laughed. “Amanda breezed through this delivery, and here I brought her to Helena to deliver the baby in case something went wrong. Of course, if I hadn’t insisted, who knows?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” added Mr. Bailey. “You had no way of knowing, dear.”

  Susan clasped her hands together. “I can’t wait to see this baby. He’s going to be so tiny and so cute and…”

  Mrs. Bailey chuckled. “Get in line behind his grandmother.”

  “Does anyone want a coffee while we’re waiting?” inquired Mr. Bailey.

  “That would be nice, sweetheart.” Mrs. Bailey patted her husband’s arm.

  Just then, a nurse appeared in the hallway. “Mr. and Mrs. Bailey?”

  “That us,” answered Amanda’s mother.

  “Your daughter asked for you. And for Susan Sanders.”

  “I’m here.” Susan linked arms with Mrs. Bailey.

  The nurse led the way to Amanda’s room and they peeked inside. “Is Amanda Branigan in here?” inquired Mrs. Bailey, creeping into the room.

  “Mom,” whispered Amanda, tearfully. “You’ve got to see him. He’s so beautiful.”

  “I’m so happy for you.” Susan hugged
her friend and peered down at the small bundle in her friend’s arms. “Oh, he’s so tiny.”

  “I know. He weighed seven pounds six ounces, twenty-one inches long, just a normal little guy.”

  “Come meet your granny,” said Mrs. Bailey, carefully slipping the baby out of her daughter’s arms. She clasped the tiny bundle to her chest, beaming. “No matter how often I become a grandmother, it’s special every time.”

  “Have you named him yet, sweetheart?” asked Mr. Bailey.

  “Hi, Dad. Yes, we did.” Amanda beamed. “We went out on a limb for a name.”

  “Oh, Lord, not some weird name he’ll hate when he grows up.” Mrs. Bailey frowned.

  “After a great deal of discussion and extensive negotiations we agreed to ‘Jeremy Arthur Branigan, Jr.’. Amanda laughed. “Gotcha.”

  “We’ll call him J.J.,” added Jeremy, entering the room and handing his wife a cup of coffee.

  “It’s a perfect name, honey.” Mr. Bailey leaned down and kissed his daughter’s forehead, and then wagged his finger at her. “But you had me going there for awhile.”

  “From the minute I learned I was carrying a boy, I decided to give him his daddy’s name. Jeremy agreed, and we just waited until he was born.” Amanda beamed, proudly.

  “Well, maybe the next one will be a girl. I’d really like a namesake, Amanda,” teased Susan.

  “Whoa. I’m happy with one miracle at a time.” Amanda waved off the idea.

  “Remember the battle with cancer?” Susan blinked back tears. “The surgery and then the months of treatments. You were so sick. I never believed this day would come.”

  Amanda reached for Susan’s hand. “I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I met such a wonderful guy like Jeremy, and then to conceive a baby and carry him to full term. It’s an absolute miracle, Susan.”

  “God knows you deserve to be happy. God set the whole thing in motion when I ordered you to cover for Catherine at the bank.”

  “Thank goodness I agreed to do it.”

  “I should go home and catch a few winks before work, but I promise to visit the ranch soon.” Susan peeked over Mrs. Bailey’s shoulder and gently touched the tiny woolen cap on the baby’s head.