He wasn’t buying it.
“Regardless of how long it takes to get you back to good-as-new, this ranch is a living, breathing entity that isn’t standing idle while you’re doing it. It’s only mid-November, but if we intend to have the Happy Hooves program up and running by spring we’ve got to get our butts in gear. Finalize plans, hire and train staff during the next four months or so. Acquire and train more horses, purchase saddles and helmets and all the other equipment we’re going to need. One of the horse trainers I hired is a computer whiz, and the kid has been an invaluable help with all this.” Brock pointed at the sea of paper he’d spread across the kitchen table.
“Okay, I’ve given up on selling the ranch back to you. What do you have here anyway?” Dusty leaned his arms on the kitchen table.
The next hour passed quickly. The cookie plate and coffee pot emptied during Dusty’s intense discussions with Brock. The old guy knew his stuff, and Dusty couldn’t ignore the fact that he couldn’t have done a better job himself.
“Brock, I almost believe we’ll have Happy Hooves in operation by spring. Of course, the program won’t be on the level I envision, but it will be a good start. And it will be at least another year before we’ve collected enough funding to launch the charity end of things, but I’m excited.” Dusty felt a broad smile cross his face. His partner’s enthusiasm was as contagious as a flu bug in February.
“Between therapy sessions, I need you to contact the lady from the horse rescue farm and inquire about any available horses that would suit our purposes. Her husband emailed me a copy of the business plan he finalized for you. He’s sending printed copies by courier, and they should be here tomorrow morning. I’ll set up some appointments with possible contributors. Guys that I’ve served with on numerous committees and people I met through agricultural and equine organizations I’ve belonged to over the years. Once I get the word out these folks know several other influential people. This charity is going to succeed. I feel it in my old bones.” Brock grinned like a kid who’d been promised a special toy.
Dusty didn’t know what to say. His throat constricted and he fought to keep his emotions in check. A few months ago when he lay in the hospital bed unable to feel his legs or toes, he hadn’t believed this moment was possible. And now Brock’s hard work and positive outlook almost had him convinced that his dreams would come true, sooner or later.
Even if it turned out to be later, what more could he ask for?
“You know, Brock, when I bought your ranch and agreed to allow you to move into the old foreman’s cabin, I thought I was doing you a favor. I never could have imagined what the future held in store for me: the accident, the uncertainty, the long recovery. You stepping up and taking over, keeping the dream alive and running with it, is more than I expected. A man can’t buy that kind of friendship. But we’re more than friends, Brock. We’re family. What you’ve done is something any father would do to help a son in my situation. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.” Dusty reached out and shook Brock’s hand.
“I feel exactly the same way. You’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son. I couldn’t be prouder of you—what you’ve accomplished and what you’ll achieve in the future.” Brock bent over and hugged Dusty. “We make a great team, my boy. I thought perhaps you’d think I was overstepping, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you’re letting me do this for you.”
“I’m happy you didn’t fetch that checkbook. Regardless of what happens in the future, I think life is going to be rewarding. Even if I have to work behind the scenes instead of hands-on like I planned, I’m going to love watching this ranch thrive.” Dusty waved his hand. “Okay, enough of this soppy stuff. Let’s check the TV schedule and see what time the game starts tonight. Ms. Walters will let us eat in front of the tube anyway.”
“Game starts at seven, I think. I’m expecting a delivery from the feed store. I’ll be back around seven and watch the game with you.” Brock headed out the front door.
****
Next morning, Dusty wheeled his chair into the kitchen. “How are you today, Ms. Walters?”
“Good morning, Dusty.” His nurse stuck a pan of muffins into the oven. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Is there any coffee?”
“Yes, I just brewed a fresh pot. Thought you’d be coming for a cup as soon as the therapist finished up.”
“Brian just left. He worked me pretty hard this morning. Some days there’s a thin line between therapy and torture with that man. Today he taught me how to shift my body from the wheelchair to the sofa. I stood bearing my own weight on my legs for a full minute and then I took six steps across the floor before my legs gave out.” Dusty’s voice croaked, and he took a moment to collect himself. “Sometimes I believe I might actually walk again some day.”
“It will happen, Dusty. I firmly believe it.” She glanced over at him.
“Okay, I’ll be in the living room. Maybe I’ll practice moving out of my chair.”
“The muffins will be done in fifteen minutes. If you can wait that long, I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and a muffin and stand by while you practice to ensure you’re okay.”
“I appreciate that. Brock is dropping by with some resumes for me to review before we hire more staff. If you notice him come in, please bring him a coffee and muffin, too.”
“Will do, Dusty.”
“Thank you,” he called as he rolled his chair down the hallway.
He wheeled his way into the living room and slowly rolled his chair over to the loveseat. He’d mastered moving onto the living room sofa this morning when the therapist was here, and he decided there was no reason to wait for the nurse.
Dusty shifted to the edge of the wheelchair’s seat and reached for the cushion on the loveseat. He sidled over a little more, reached a little further, and then he felt himself tipping forward while the chair shot backward out from under him. When he toppled out of the chair, he clipped his head on the corner of the heavily-carved wooden coffee table. Immediately, his body crumpled in a heap on the hardwood floor.
Everything went black.
Chapter 16
“Dusty.”
He heard a male voice calling his name.
“Dusty.”
Same voice, more insistent.
Dusty attempted to open his eyes. His eyelids fluttered for a second and then stilled again. His head hurt. Actually, hurt was putting it mildly. If the throbbing pain indicated how hard he’d hit that table, his noggin might explode at any second.
At least this time he remembered what he’d done. Stupid, stupid, stupid. In his eagerness, he’d forgotten to set the brake on the wheelchair before attempting to transfer himself to the loveseat. He deserved every bit of pain he was experiencing right now for forgetting such an important first step.
“Dusty. Open your eyes.”
The authoritative male voice made it sound like an order. He didn’t know whether to open his eyes or salute. Finally, he managed to force his eyes open. Immediately, his stomach did a flip flop. A blurry physician in a white lab coat stood over him with what he thought was a stethoscope in his hand.
“Good afternoon. You’re awake.”
Dusty blinked and grimaced. “The room is too bright. Could you close the curtains?”
A nurse stuck a thermometer in his mouth. “Let’s examine you and make sure you’re going to live before we worry about the window coverings.”
He groaned and attempted to blink when the doctor pried his eye open and pointed a bright light in it. “Ouch,” he said, talking around the thermometer.
“Please keep your mouth closed,” ordered the nurse.
Dusty glowered. When had medical personnel gotten so bossy? He should have asked for painkillers for his headache instead of complaining about the damn curtains. Could this day get any worse? He’d nearly brained himself on a damn table, and now he was stuck here waiting for the doctor to finish his examination.
“Who brought m
e in here?”
The nurse flashed him the evil eye for talking again.
“An ambulance,” answered the doctor.
“Did anyone from the ranch come with me?” He heard a whiney little kid in his voice.
“Stop talking. You must keep your mouth shut. To answer your question, there’s an older gentleman in a plaid shirt waiting. Also a young woman dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. She’s a private duty nurse. I’ve seen her around here before. And there’s a pretty blonde lady in a pale gray business suit,” said the nurse.
Brock, Ms. Walters, and Susan. Same cast of characters as before.
A couple minutes later, the nurse finally removed the thermometer and checked the reading.
“On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain?” The doctor stood, waiting for an answer.
“A nine. Feels like my head might explode.” Dusty answered honestly, but he hoped the doctor didn’t think he was exaggerating. His head really hurt, damn it. His stomach did another acrobatic move. “And I might puke any minute.”
“The x-rays we took when you were first admitted, and still unconscious, confirmed a mild concussion,” reported the doctor. “We’re keeping you overnight and maybe another day if we deem it advisable. There doesn’t seem to be any damage done to your spine.”
“One advantage to landing on your head,” muttered Dusty. After only a few weeks at home, here he was admitted to the hospital again.
The doctor tucked Dusty’s chart under his arm. “That’s it for now. I’ve prescribed painkillers, and the nurses will report if your condition changes. I’ll send your visitors in to see you.”
Before Dusty could protest, the doctor slipped out the door. Brock, Susan and Ms. Walters rushed into his room.
“How are you doing, son?” asked Brock.
“I’m so happy to see you’re conscious.” Ms. Walters reached for his hand. “You scared the daylights out of me when I walked into the living room and found you out cold on the floor and bleeding profusely from your head.”
“Hi, Dusty. Brock called me. Are you okay?” Susan stood just inside the door.
“I’ll live. The doctors are keeping me overnight. I’ve got a concussion, my head hurts like hell, and I might puke at any second. But I’ll be home again tomorrow. At least, I hope so. I’m starting to hate hospitals.”
“Get in line,” whispered Susan. Her phone vibrated and she read the incoming text message.
“Don’t be too eager to leave the hospital. Don’t discharge yourself against doctor’s orders. Concussions aren’t something to be taken lightly.” Ms. Walters checked his IV.
“I’ve got to get back to the bank.” Susan stuffed her cell phone into her suit pocket.
“Now?” Brock frowned.
“A member of the Ellis Bank’s board of directors just passed away. Although the reason is unfortunate, a seat on the board just opened up,” answered Susan, sounding distracted to Dusty.
“Let her go. We all know how important her career is. She can’t wait to get in line for that board seat.” Dusty scowled and turned toward the wall.
*
Susan heard the venom in Dusty’s voice and recognized the face turning toward the wall gesture, a repeat of when he’d been injured in the accident. Nothing said ‘you’re dismissed’ like a cold shoulder. He truly didn’t understand her ambition. What on earth ever made her think they could have a future together?
She headed toward the door. “I’ll fill you in when I return. Call me if his condition changes, please.”
“Will do,” said Brock, from where he stood beside Dusty’s bed.
“Don’t I have a say in this?” asked Dusty, turning back and meeting Brock’s eyes.
“Not if you’re going to act like a spoiled little boy who isn’t getting everyone’s undivided attention.” Brock jabbed Dusty’s arm.
“Ouch.” Dusty glared at him.
“When I’m finished at the bank, I’ll call your cell, Brock.” Susan slipped out the door and raced to the elevator.
Fifteen minutes later, she charged through the front door of the Ellis Bank. The place sounded quiet as a morgue, which seemed fitting considering there’d been a death in the Ellis Bank family. She strode down the hallway to her office. “Come with me, please, Marie” Susan instructed her assistant as she passed her desk.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Sanders.” Marie hurried to catch up. “We couldn’t believe the news.”
“Thank you. It shocked all of us, but Ruby Ellis-Peterson was almost eighty. Apparently, she’d been ill for sometime, but Ruby kept her condition a secret from everyone except her closest family members. She brought feistiness to the bank’s board of directors meetings, and we’re all going to miss her dearly.”
“I sent flowers to her son’s home, and another bouquet to the bank’s main branch. I signed your name. I hope that was okay.”
“Thanks for doing that so quickly. I’m calling Catherine Branigan, and then I’ll require your assistance with something else, please.” Susan tossed her handbag on her desk.
Another staff member popped her head in the door and set a mug on the corner of the desk. “Here’s a cup of coffee, Ms. Sanders.”
“Thank you so much. You gals are the best.”
“I’ll be at my desk whenever you need me,” said Marie, following the other woman out.
Susan slumped into her executive chair, grabbed the desk phone’s receiver and punched in Catherine Branigan’s private number at the bank.
“Hello. This is Catherine.”
“It’s me. I just heard the sad news. Ruby’s family must be devastated.”
“She’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer a few months ago. Her family knew this day would come.” Catherine sighed. “I know the reason for your call—the vacant seat on the board. You’re interested in it, aren’t you?”
“Years pass before a position opens on the board. Should I submit my name as a possible candidate?” Susan bit the tip of her artificial nail, torn between whether or not to throw her name in the running.
“I couldn’t say anything, Susan. But the seat on the board is almost a done deal.”
Susan straightened in her chair and her heart leapt into her throat. She couldn’t speak for a minute.
“Are you still there, Susan?” inquired Catherine. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say anything. I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Who got the seat?” blurted Susan.
“Apparently, Ruby nominated her own replacement a month ago, and the board approved the nomination. The board will announce the newest member later this week after the funeral. The only reason I know about any of this…the new board member is my father-in-law, Arthur Branigan.”
“Oh, my, God,” exclaimed Susan, feeling like someone had punched her in the stomach. All of her dreams withered like a dying rose. At least she’d concede this loss graciously. Surely, someday it would be her turn. “Arthur is the perfect choice. Good job, Ruby. He has maturity, life experience, and business acumen backing him up. Not to mention he has a gazillion dollars deposited in the Ellis Bank. There’s no way I could compete with that.”
“Our family is thrilled, of course, but Arthur has all of us sworn to secrecy.” Catherine chuckled. “I know you’re disappointed, but your time will come.”
“Thanks, Catherine. My first reaction was ‘poor Ruby’, and then in the very next second I was composing my application in my head.” Susan grimaced. “Isn’t that shameful?”
“Maybe a little, but you’ve made no secret of your dream of becoming a member of the board. Be patient. It will happen.”
Susan sighed. “Let’s see. Gray hair, maturity, several hundred thousand more dollars on deposit in the bank, and I’ll be a shoo-in.”
“For sure. Get working on that,” laughed Catherine.
“With all that Dusty has put me through these last few months, I think the man has given me several gray hairs.” Susan gasped. “Oh, my, God! I’ve got to hang up and call the hospital
and see how Dusty is.”
Susan spent another few minutes updating Catherine on Dusty’s fall and then she hung up.
“Screw this.” Susan grabbed her purse and headed out the door to return to the hospital. She intended to see Dusty in person and see if there was any change in his condition.
****
Susan returned to the hospital, prepared to face Dusty’s wrath. Again, he just turned his back to her and either fell asleep or pretended to sleep. She stormed out to the waiting room and extended her goodbyes to Brock and Linda Walters.
“I’ll talk to you guys, soon,” she mumbled and headed to the elevator.
Fifteen minutes later, Susan crawled into her BMW in the hospital parking lot and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She punched in the number and waited for the call to connect.
“Hello,” whispered a familiar voice.
“Amanda, is that you?” Susan frowned. “Why are you whispering?”
“My cell is set on ‘vibrate’ because I’m in the nursery watching J.J. sleep,” she admitted. “I can’t believe this precious little person is mine.”
“Oh, stop that, or you’ll have me all teary-eyed.” Susan smiled. “You’re a wonderful mother, and you totally deserve that little guy.”
“Thank you.”
Susan heard a door closing and boots moving across a hardwood floor.
“Why are you calling? Is everything okay with you?” asked Amanda, her voice returned to a normal volume.
“I can sum it up in one word. Dusty,” said Susan. “I’m so mad at him, I should be screaming or crying or something. But I’m just so frustrated. I’m at my wit’s end.”
“What has Dusty done now?”
Susan sighed. “He tipped out of the wheelchair while attempting to move from his chair to the loveseat in the living room. He cracked his skull on the corner of the coffee table, ended up back in the hospital. Too bad the thump on the noggin didn’t knock some sense into him,” she added, then felt remorseful for saying such a thing. Dusty’s spine could have been badly damaged again, perhaps even worse than before.
When Dreams Collide Page 17
