by Jo Barrett
“You’re high-maintenance, man,” Wyatt had chuckled, clapping Steve on the shoulder.
“I get dehydrated,” Steve had said, spritzing his face. Mr. Louisiana was sporting head-to-toe camouflage, and stingray cowboy boots.
“Nice outfit, Super Fly,” C. Todd Hartwell muttered.
Steve said, “Thanks, dawg,” and left it at that.
Dylan pointed out the location of Tangled Spur on a map, and C. Todd Hartwell gunned the Hummer out of the front parking entrance of the Royal Arms.
Wyatt cracked his window to drown out the overpowering scent of Steve’s cologne.
They sped down the highway listening to a radio station playing “Sounds of the Eighties.”
Madonna, Tears for Fears, Wham!, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and even Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”
When Prince came on with “When Doves Cry,” Steve shouted, “Crank it up!”
About two hours into the trip, they stopped off at Whataburger and ordered three Whataburgers with cheese and one Whatachick’n with bacon for Steve. Wyatt ordered two fries for himself and a large Dr Pepper.
C. Todd Hartwell produced a bottle of whiskey from inside his Windbreaker and used it to top off his Coke.
He offered it around the table, but Dylan, Wyatt, and Steve declined. “Shit dawg, it’s only ten A.M.,” Steve said, checking his big gold watch.
“You shouldn’t be driving. Let me take over,” Dylan offered. C. Todd Hartwell laughed and took a swig from his fountain drink. “I drive better with the medicine,” he said. “Trust me.”
Dylan excused himself from the table and went outside to call Kat. She was at the hospital with Diego’s parents, and had spent the night there last night. Dylan had already shown her the photograph and told her his plan to look for oil on Tangled Spur. She’d said, “Go for it, babe.”
“How far out are you?” she asked, as Dylan stood on the sidewalk outside the Whataburger.
“I expect we’ll get there around noon,” Dylan said, scraping his boot along the pavement. “How’s it going…over there?” he asked hesitantly.
He heard Kathleen sniffle, and he clutched the phone tightly in his hand.
“We’re holding up,” she replied. “But it’s just so hard.”
“I know, hon,” Dylan said, softly. He hated to think of Kat inside that hospital room, watching that poor boy die, but this was what she’d chosen. This was what she referred to as her “life calling.” So the least he could do was be supportive.
Diego’s parents had called in all their relatives, and they were holding a twenty-four-hour prayer vigil over Diego’s bedside. Kathleen had been invited to join them, and of course, she’d accepted.
“When this is all over,” Dylan said, “I’d like to start planning our wedding.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Kat said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have some big to-do at Pa Pa’s house. Maybe we should just run off and elope. Like to Paris or Italy or Mexico or something.”
“Whatever you want, hon,” Dylan said. “It’s your day.”
“We really don’t have the money for a big wedding, anyway,” Kat said.
Dylan sucked in his breath.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said immediately. “It’s just that we’ve got to focus on paying off Wyatt’s debt first.”
“No. Wyatt needs to focus on paying off Wyatt’s debt,” Dylan said. He glanced inside the Whataburger windows just in time to see his younger brother taking a huge bite from his cheeseburger. Grease and ketchup ran down Wyatt’s chin, and he wiped it off with a glob of napkins.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Look, hon. I’m going to make things right. You’ve gotta have faith.”
“I do,” Kat said. “And I love you, munchkin.”
“Love you, too,” Dylan said. He didn’t like being called a “munchkin,” but sometimes there was no rhyme or reason for Kat’s pet names.
“Call me later?” she asked.
“You bet.”
He clicked the phone off, sighed deeply, and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Wyatt.
“Felix called me yesterday,” he said.
“And?”
“And he wants his money.”
“No shit, Sherlock. What did you tell him?”
“I told him we were drilling this big daddy-o, monster of all monster wells, and that it would take at least six more weeks.”
Dylan scowled and shook his head.
“What’s wrong with that?” Wyatt asked.
“All I have is a photograph and a log report from the railroad commission,” Dylan said. “That’s pretty far from this monster well you’re talking about. I mean, Jesus brother! I’m working off a hunch. We haven’t even found the drill site yet. And even if we do, we could drill a dry hole!”
Wyatt crossed his arms over his broad chest and flashed Dylan his movie star smile. “Won’t happen,” he said.
“Let me guess. This is what you folks on the West Coast call ‘channeling positive energy,’” Dylan said dryly.
Wyatt threw his head back up at the sky and laughed. “You know what your problem is, brother? Here you are, on the phone with Kat, telling her to have faith. And you don’t have any faith of your own!”
“What are you trying to say?” Dylan asked.
Wyatt shook Dylan by the shoulders. “I’m saying it’s time to have faith!”
Forty-two
“Never in my entire career,” Dr. Levin was saying, “have I seen anything this remarkable.”
Kat had been the first to notice it. Diego’s eyelids were fluttering. And then his hand moved a little bit. Then he opened his eyes fully. He blinked a few times and tugged at Kathleen’s hand.
She’d rushed down the hall to Dr. Levin’s office and called him to Diego’s bedside. But Diego was unconscious again by the time the doctor arrived.
“It could be his reflexes,” Dr. Levin said, after examining the boy from head to toe.
“Can we do another brain scan?” Kat asked.
“Sure. But I don’t know what the point would be.”
Diego’s mother had begun to cry. She’d never stopped crying, actually. It’s just that she cried so much, sometimes the tears dried up and she’d cry without them. This time, the tears ran down her face in rolling wet streams. Diego’s father passed her the box of Kleenex from his lap.
“Please, Dr. Levin,” Kat said. She looked him in the eye and he finally nodded and said, “Okay.”
Kat helped the nurse roll Diego’s stretcher into the PET scan imaging room. She helped lift Diego’s body and transfer him onto the lab table. The nurse placed the catheter that would administer the contrast dye into Diego’s bloodstream.
Once he’d been properly prepped, Diego was rolled inside the machine to get his brain scan.
The PET scan took about three hours, and Kat waited at the nursing station the entire time for the results. Dr. Levin had requested that the report come back “stat.”
“What is stat?” Kat had asked.
“From the Latin word statinum,” Dr. Levin said, “meaning immediately.”
Kathleen waited for the results and prayed. She prayed for Diego Ramirez, for his family, for his future. She told God that it didn’t matter whether she had any children of her own, But please, Lord, please just spare this one child.
The radiology report came back within hours. Dr. Levin motioned for Kat to follow him into his office. He stood by the window shaking his head.
“Never in my career…” he kept repeating over and over.
At that moment, Kathleen knew it was time to smile.
“Tell me,” she prompted.
“Diego’s brain tumor is in remission. The cancer isn’t spreading as we originally thought. He’s actually doing quite well.”
Kathleen clapped her hands and squealed. She ran toward Dr. Levin and gave him a hug. He smelled like hospital soap and coffee.
“I knew it!”
Dr. Levin raised his hand
up like a stop sign to settle her down. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Diego’s infection is serious and he’s having difficulty breathing.”
“He’s a fighter,” Kat said. “He’s going to make it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dr. Levin chuckled. “Please send in Diego’s parents. I would like to show them these scans.”
Kat swept back into Diego’s room and summoned his parents to Dr. Levin’s office. She translated for Dr. Levin as he pointed out the spots on the scan which showed Diego’s tumor. “There is no flare-up,” Dr. Levin was saying, which was difficult for Kat to translate, but she managed to get the point across.
As soon as they were finished, Kat walked back to Diego’s room and was not surprised to see that the little boy’s eyes were open again. He spotted Kat coming into the room and he tried pointing his finger to his favorite book.
“You want me to read to you. Of course I will!” Kat swooned. She grabbed the Tales of the Unicorn Land book off the window-sill, cracked it open, and began to read:
Uli Unicorn’s Magic Dust
Wilma the waterwitch
And her 25 black
Cats lived in a
Cave near the Smiling Pond.
Wilma was the dark cloud
Of the Unicorn Land.
Every time Wilma became
Angry, she went into
A screaming tantrum.
She screeched, fell on
The ground, waved her
Arms about, then
She cast a dark spell
And made it rain.
A day, a week, or sometimes longer!
Her black cats spit, yowled, and
Fought. All the noise
Scared the children of the
Unicorn Land. They would cover
Their ears and hide.
One day, poor old Wilberforce, the
Cross-eyed snake who saw
Double, accidentally bumped
Into Wilma. She went into
Her usual screaming fit.
Uli Unicorn had reached the
End of his patience with
Wilma.
He grabbed Wilma and
Her 25 cats and sprinkled them
With Magic dust.
They slept
Soundly for 24 hours.
When Wilma awoke, she
Smiled and was pleasant to
Everyone.
The cats
Played with each other and
Purred constantly.
From that day on, Wilma never
Had another tantrum.
Thus peace and happiness
Were again restored to
The Land.
Thanks to Uli Unicorn’s
Magic Dust.
When Kat was finished reading the story, she placed her hand on Diego’s forehead. It was warm, but she thought his temperature was coming down. She had the nurse check his vital sign monitor.
“He’s doing good,” the nurse said.
Kat smiled down at Diego and saw that his eyes were looking back at her. They were bright and strong. She felt a surge of warmth spread through her body. It was such a good feeling to discover that this child might have a chance. And it put her life into perspective. The work she did for her foundation. The money she’d raised. The goals she’d set. They no longer seemed frivolous. Kat envisioned children’s cancer hospitals, just like this, all over the country. And even a cure for cancer, which would be the best news yet.
“You’re a brave strong boy, Diego,” she whispered into the child’s ear.
Forty-three
Dylan swept the binoculars across the broad expanse of ranch land. C. Todd Hartwell maneuvered the Hummer across the gravel roads circling the Tangled Spur.
“Looks like we’re gonna have to do this on foot,” Dylan said. They’d already circled the ranch twice, and Dylan hadn’t seen any stakes sticking up from the ground. He knew the stake could’ve come loose if the dirt around it got wet, or muddy, or for a whole host of reasons. And it could be lying in the tall grasses, hidden by cactus or brush. If this was the case, it would take him forever to find the drill site.
C. Todd Hartwell parked the Hummer, and the four guys climbed out. Wyatt propped his deer rifle up on his shoulder. “Let’s get it on.”
Steve rubbed sunscreen all over his face, donned a white Panama hat, and turned his collar up around the neck. He looked ridiculous in the camouflage, but Dylan knew better than to make fun of Mr. Louisiana’s outfit.
C. Todd Hartwell took a swig from the whiskey bottle and burst out with “Let’s get ready to rumble!” as if he were announcing a WWE wrestling match.
The four guys fanned out across the land and began their treks. The Texas landscape was harsh and unforgiving. Especially when the sun was high in the sky and the temperature in the nineties. On his shoulder, Dylan carried a CamelBak filled with water.
It was a fool’s errand to try and hike the ranch without the appropriate gear. Water, sunscreen, snake boots, and walkie-talkie radios so they could get in touch with one another.
Texas terrain could kill people, and often did.
Over the next few hours, they’d each covered a few hundred acres. Dylan hiked quickly toward the Wishing Rock, in the area where he and Kat had first spotted the bubbling crude. If Cullen Davis King knew about the surface minerals, this could’ve possibly clued him in to the idea of a sea of oil flowing underneath his feet.
Dylan knew that the key was to first pump out all of the oil first—which existed on a shallower level—before reaching the big payload, the deep natural gas underneath.
He made his way toward the stream and spotted the Wishing Rock in the distance. For some reason, his intuition told him he was getting close. Dylan closed his eyes a moment and wiped sweat from his brow. Wyatt was right. He had to have faith.
He trudged through the grasses and undergrowth, whacking at the hanging brush and tree limbs with a small workman’s machete. It was tough going, but he finally reached the hole.
Dylan heard a shotgun blast in the distance and realized that Wyatt was close by. He reached for his radio.
“Hey brother, don’t shoot me accidentally on purpose,” he said.
Wyatt chuckled into the receiver. “The hog got away, but he didn’t get far. He’s wounded.”
“Are you tracking him?” Dylan asked.
“Yep.”
“Well, you’re supposed to be looking for the stake.”
“Really? I forgot.”
“Smart ass,” Dylan grumbled. He knew that Wyatt’s talents were much better served taking down a hog than searching for a drill site. While he’d always been an excellent shot, Wyatt was never one to notice “details.”
His younger brother would probably step right over the stake and not realize it, Dylan thought, with a smile.
He radioed Steve and C. Todd Hartwell to check their progress.
“Any luck?” Dylan asked, into the radio.
“I saw some birds fucking,” C. Todd said. “But that’s been the highlight.”
“You’re a sick sonofabitch,” Steve’s voice sounded on the line.
“You have no idea,” C. Todd replied.
“Back to work,” Dylan said.
“Ay ay, Captain.”
This was from Wyatt.
Dylan rolled his eyes and put the radio back in his pack. He was hot. Hot, tired, frustrated, and sick of this shit. Something’s gotta give, he thought.
He raised the machete over his head and whacked at the bush in front of him. It was hard to take down so Dylan kicked it, and then decided to climb right over the top of the thing. He was cursing as he realized his hands were covered with burrs and pickers. And that he was going to have to pry them out of his raw skin one by one. He’d also been bit by a ton of mosquitoes and quite possibly a few ticks.
Great, Dylan thought. This little sojourn was going to give him Lyme disease. He was just about to throw up his hands and forget the
whole thing.
And that’s when he saw it.
Poking out of the dirt. A stake that had been hammered into the ground. Just like in the photograph.
Dylan felt his heart rise up into his throat. It was here! The drill site. Right near the stream. Right near the bubbling hole that he’d discovered.
Dylan rushed forward and checked the stake for any signs of markings. But if they’d once been there, they were long gone—having been stripped away by the elements. The stake was bare, and held not a single marking. But Dylan felt in his gut that this had to be it.
As he reached for his radio, Dylan paused. He wanted to take this moment to thank the Lord, or whoever had presented him with this gift. This opportunity. Dylan realized that the only person he wanted to share the good news with…was Kat.
He’d have to call her as soon as he reached an area with good cell phone reception. Until then, he needed to share the news with his makeshift “crew.” They weren’t professional in the least, but heck. They were all he had.
Dylan grabbed his hand radio. “I found it!” he blurted into the receiver. “Come look!”
Wyatt’s voice came on immediately. “See, brother. I told you to have faith.”
Forty-four
Kat felt like a scarecrow. Her arms were raised in the air, and she was waiting patiently as the Korean alterations lady at the Bridal Boutique pinned the dress all around her. Kat was standing on a small platform in front of a wide wall filled with mirrors. She felt ridiculous posing in the bouffant white dress, but Shelby Lynn Pierce had insisted that Kat buy a new wedding dress—not some “old rag” from Twice Around Texas.
“That dress is the bomb, honey,” Shelby Lynn said as she circled around Kat, her expert eyes measuring Kat up and down.
“Who’s the designer?” Kat asked.
“Oscar de la Renta,” Shelby Lynn said.
“Who’s that?”
Shelby Lynn glanced over at Aunt Lucinda sitting in the corner of the fitting room. Lucinda was drinking one of the Bridal Boutique’s mango fruit punch cocktails out of a champagne flute.
