Make Mine a Cowboy

by A. J. Pine

  “I’m going to be thirty in a few weeks, Dad.” He forced a laugh and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Facial hair’s been here for quite some time.”

  Ben’s mom sat down next to his dad and rested a hand over his.

  “It’s game night, Nolan. Ben brought his friend Charlotte for game night.”

  The older man looked down at the cards on the table, half of them still in his left hand.

  “Right,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Game night. I remember.”

  Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. Nolan Callahan might have been old enough to have two grown sons, but he wasn’t an old man by any means. He was good-looking like his sons, just with salt-and-pepper hair and a laugh line or two. She doubted he was much over fifty. She couldn’t wrap her head around what it had been like for Ben to imagine the same future for himself while also watching his father continue to appear healthy as his brain invisibly deteriorated.

  Charlotte sat across from Nolan while Ben took the seat next to his father.

  “Remember the ranch, Dad?” Ben asked hesitantly. “Sam and I built the ranch in Meadow Valley. We all moved out here, Colt too.”

  “Of course I remember,” Nolan snapped, going back to shuffling. Then he took a deep breath and made eye contact with his son. “I remember,” he said again, his tone gentle this time. “How’s the eye? Mom told me about the accident.”

  “I’m good, Dad,” Ben said softly. He reached a hand over and set it on Charlotte’s knee. “Real good.”

  Nolan turned to look at Barbara Ann. “I’m damn proud of our boys, especially now that this one comes to see me more.” He nodded back at Ben with a smirk.

  “And he’s back,” Ben said, clapping his dad on the shoulder. “How about shuffling and getting this game going?” He grabbed a handful of M&M’s. “Are these peanut, or have you started experimenting with other flavors?”

  Nolan scoffed. “There is no other flavor worthy of consumption and you know that.”

  Ben laughed, then nudged the bowl toward Charlotte. “The man does have a point.”

  She took a handful herself and popped one in her mouth while Ben’s father started to deal. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  After that, the game was underway. As cards were thrown, Nolan and Ben began ribbing each other like she guessed fathers and sons did. Soon she saw Ben’s shoulders relax and his hesitant smile creep closer to his eyes. Charlotte was having so much fun, she’d all but forgotten about her good-natured threat to kick Ben’s butt in the game.

  But when Barbara Ann threw down a Reverse card and changed the color from red to yellow, Charlotte had no choice but to throw the card she’d been saving at a smiling Ben, who only had two cards left in his hand.

  Wild Draw Four.

  “Uno,” Charlotte said, holding nothing but a red four in her hand.

  “Oooh,” Nolan said with a sly grin. “I think she just upset your almost win.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes at her and drew his four cards.

  “But what color should I throw?” he asked, his words more of a taunt than a question.

  She laid her card flat on the table so as not to accidentally give herself away and stared at him with a vacant expression. She was a doctor, after all. She could put on a poker face when needed.

  “Green?” Ben asked.

  She remained unmoved.

  “Blue?” he tried, but she didn’t falter.

  He organized his six cards and glanced at her again, then groaned when he couldn’t get a read on her.

  “Sorry, Dad,” he said. “But it’s the best move I’ve got right now.” Then he threw a Draw Two. A red Draw Two.

  She held her breath as Nolan chose his two cards and then threw down a red six. Barbara Ann followed with a red two.

  Charlotte held on to her composure just long enough to flip over her card and then whooped and clapped at her victory.

  “In your face, Callahans!” she shouted, then sprang up from the table into a not-at-all-embarrassing victory dance. When she realized she was dancing alone—which wasn’t quick enough—she abruptly stopped. “Oops,” she said sheepishly. “I’m guessing maybe Ben should have warned you that I have a competitive streak.”

  For several seconds, they all stared at her. Then Nolan burst into a fit of laughter, and Ben and Barbara Ann were quick to follow. Soon all four of them were up and out of their seats, mimicking her sweet moves like “stirring the pot” and “the running man.” Somehow all her dance skills came from the ’90s and sort of got stuck there.

  The few other residents in the game room were watching, as was the female check-in attendant who snuck in from the lobby, and soon it was a full-on dance party in the game room.

  Charlotte thought that this was what family must feel like—laughing and dancing and looking ridiculous but not even caring. At one point, Ben—breaking out of a silly yet sexy booty shake—wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a kiss.

  “Thank you,” he said when her bones had turned to Jell-O and she thought she might not be able to stand if he let go.

  “For what?” she asked, then kissed him one more time for good measure.

  “For being you,” he said, then kissed her cheek. “For being here,” he added, then kissed the other. “If I’d have known that all it would take for you to let that guard down was me almost losing an eye, I’d have done it weeks ago.”

  She backhanded him on the shoulder.

  “Real cute, cowboy. You know, I may not be the best at saying how I feel, but I can show it—with the right person.”

  He dipped his head so his lips were next to her ear. When his breath hit her skin, goose bumps rippled up and down her arms.

  “Are you saying, Doc, that what you’re feeling is that I’m the right person?”

  Her breath hitched. But before she could squeak out a yes, Barbara Ann’s voice broke through the haze.

  “Nolan? Nolan, are you okay?” she asked.

  Ben released her, and they both spun to see Nolan Callahan no longer dancing but instead standing with both hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Is it another headache?” Ben’s mother persisted when Nolan didn’t respond.

  “How often has he been getting headaches?” Charlotte asked as Ben helped his father back into his chair.

  “Thanksgiving was the first that I know of,” Ben said. “He said it felt like a tiny explosion in his head, but after some ibuprofen and rest, it seemed to go away.”

  “Mr. Callahan?” Charlotte asked, squatting down next to him. “Is that how it feels this time too? A little—” She cleared her throat. “A little explosion?”

  He nodded, eyes still squeezed shut, then said something that sounded like Yesh.

  “We need to get him to a hospital,” she said to Ben. “I’m assuming the facility has emergency vehicles?”

  Ben stood there and blinked for a second, then nodded.

  She placed a hand on his cheek. “Stay here with your dad. I’ll be right back.”

  Seconds later, she returned with two male nurses, one of whom was pushing a wheelchair. Outside the main entrance, an ambulance was already waiting.

  Nolan Callahan was no longer gripping his head like a vise. Instead, he sat in his chair, the left side of his mouth drooped lower than the right, and his left arm hanging slack at his side. Ben’s mom was still squatting next to him, whispering soothing words as her voice shook.

  “What the hell is going on?” Ben asked as the nurses explained in calm voices to his father that they were going to help him into a different chair and then take him outside.

  He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at its roots, and Charlotte put on her best poker face as she took in a calming breath. This was the first time she’d truly been terrified in a medical scenario—terrified for what Ben could lose. But he was already frightened enough. She needed to be his lifeline, and the only way she could do that was to stop being Doc and be Dr. North instead.
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  “Your father is presenting signs of a CVA, or cerebrovascular accident,” she said, her tone clinical. “A sudden intense headache, numbness or paralysis on one side of the body, slurred speech—”

  “In English, Doc. Jesus. Talk to me like I’m your boyfriend, not like I’m the family of one of your patients.”

  Dammit! She’d already made things worse when all she wanted was to keep it together in the hopes of keeping Ben—her boyfriend—from falling apart.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she grabbed one of his hands and pressed it between hers. “I’m either a doctor or your…I’ve never had to be both. I’m just trying to help you understand…I’m trying to tell you without upsetting you that—”

  The nurses were wheeling Nolan Callahan toward the door now, with Ben’s mother right behind. Ben was backing out of the room and toward the exit.

  She stopped midsentence, her mouth hanging open. There wasn’t time to process or react, just to be up front with him.

  “A stroke,” she finally said. “I think your father is having a stroke.”

  Ben swore under his breath, then looked over his shoulder at the ambulance, his father now strapped to a gurney.

  “There’s only room for your mom in there,” she said. “We can follow behind them. Do you want me to drive? You might be too emotional to get behind the wheel.”

  He didn’t say anything, just pulled the keys from his pocket and held them in his open palm. She squeezed his hand in hers before taking the keys. She couldn’t tell him that everything was going to be okay because it very likely wouldn’t be. “I’m here,” was all she said instead, hoping that would be enough for now.

  Once in the truck, she tried again to explain the symptoms and the possibilities. She couldn’t help it. Knowledge comforted her. It gave her direction, even if it was a frightening direction. Maybe it could do the same for Ben. Maybe the more he knew, the better he could process the situation.

  “There is a possibility it was only a transient ischemic attack, or TIA. It’s like a stroke, and likely the warning sign that an actual stroke is imminent, but a TIA passes quickly and usually doesn’t leave any lasting damage. You mentioned something about a headache on Thanksgiving night though. That might have been the TIA. Often a stroke happens within a week of a transient ischemic attack and—”

  “Dammit, Doc, please. Just talk to me. Like a person. I don’t want to hear doctor jargon or clinical speak or whatever it is you’re doing over there. Is my father going to die?”

  Okay. So, she was wrong.

  Charlotte’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. This was the only way she knew how to talk about life-threatening scenarios, in jargon and clinical speak. She could understand the science of the situation and work from there. But the emotion of it—if she let herself step outside of what she knew to what she felt or what Ben must be feeling, then she didn’t have the answers. And that was terrifying.

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. There were no three words she hated more. Her right hand twitched with the urge to release her death grip on the wheel and take his hand in hers or rest it on his knee. Something to make this better, to make up for not being able to give him the answer he needed.

  But her expertise had always been in facts. Sure, there were times her patients and their parents needed words of reassurance that came with a soothing voice, but she always used knowledge as her jumping-off point. Here’s what we know, and here are the possibilities. Ben wanted definitive answers, and she didn’t have them.

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” was all she could add. “I wish I knew more.”

  By the time they made it to the emergency room desk, Nolan was about to be whisked away for testing. Ben sprinted to his father’s side and quickly grabbed his hand.

  “We’re here, Dad, okay? It’s me, Ben. Mom and I are here, and we’re going to call Sam, and you’re going to be fine.” Charlotte swore she saw the man nod at his son, or maybe it was wishful thinking, but then the paramedics gently pushed Ben out of the way and continued down a hallway until they were out of sight.

  Ben’s mother sat in the waiting area, a clipboard on her lap and a pen in her hand, but she wasn’t writing anything.

  “Mom?” Ben said, rushing to the chair next to her. “What did they say? What’s going on?”

  She patted the chair next to her, and Charlotte stayed put, suddenly feeling out of place when thirty minutes ago she’d felt like she’d found a new family. She was still in earshot yet felt like any more physical proximity would be an intrusion.

  “I need to tell you something,” the older woman said. Then she looked up at Charlotte. “Come here, sweetheart,” she said, motioning for Charlotte to sit too.

  Her stomach tightened, and she told herself not to speak, not to throw out any doctor talk unless she was asked.

  She nodded and took the seat next to Ben.

  Barbara Ann Callahan set down her pen and grabbed each of their hands, squeezing tight. Charlotte’s palms began to sweat.

  “He was alert in the ambulance,” she started. “Alert and here, you know? Fully present. Knew me. Knew what was going on when the paramedics asked him questions. His speech wasn’t so good, but I could understand him.”

  Ben cleared his throat, and Charlotte held her breath.

  “He told me,” she continued, then sniffed as her eyes filled with tears. “He told me that if this was the last night, it was one of the best and that he was okay with that.”

  Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Mom. It’s not his last…it’s not—” He sprang up from his chair. “I need to do something. Where did they take him? I can’t just sit here and wait.” He started pacing.

  Ben’s mother let Charlotte’s hand go, then gave her knee a pat.

  “I’m okay,” she told her. “Really. Sam and Delaney are on their way. Why don’t you take him for a walk, get some coffee or something. I’ll text him if there’s any news.”

  Charlotte nodded, then took a leap of faith and leaned over to give Ben’s mother a hug.

  “Thank you,” the other woman whispered as she hugged Charlotte right back. “For helping make tonight one of the best.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben didn’t know where Charlotte was taking him, but moving felt better than standing still.

  “I don’t want coffee,” he said flatly.

  “I know,” she said.

  “And I’m not hungry. So screw the cafeteria, okay? I need to go somewhere I can get answers. I need to—”

  “We’re here,” she said, then pushed through a glass door that led outside.

  Or, not outside. Because outside was thirty-eight degrees, and though he could see the sky and the stars, he didn’t feel the cold bite of the winter air. An atrium.

  “I didn’t even know this was here,” he said. It wasn’t big, maybe the square footage of a large master bedroom. But there were wooden benches, a couple trees, and a glass ceiling and walls that extended to the top floor of the hospital.

  “I found it when Pearl was in recovery after surgery,” she said softly, then let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not good with waiting either.”

  Ben spun to face her. “I’m sorry I snapped at you in the truck,” he said.

  She shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize for a natural reaction to a scary situation. I just…I don’t know what to say about a patient if I’m not trying to make a clinical diagnosis.”

  There were at least four feet between them, but he felt like they were miles apart.

  “I’m not a patient,” he said softly.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “What my mom said out there?” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “If this is the last night…”

  “Ben, don’t. We don’t know if that’s the case. It might not be a stroke, and the percentage that are fatal—”

  “Stop,” he said softly. He opened his eyes and swallowed despite the tightness in his throat. “I don’
t want to know numbers and percentages, okay? We’re talking about my father, and while he may have made his share of mistakes, especially before we knew he was sick, he’s still my father. Not a statistic.” He said the words as gently as he could, but he felt them in his gut. He felt the years he wasted worrying about himself when he could have been a better son, when he could have been more help to Sam in taking care of the man who raised them. He felt how still—even in the past two months—he’d thought he’d grown so much, but he was still the selfish ass he’d always been. Here he’d been planning a future, finally committing to his life at the ranch—and to Charlotte. But he’d barely scratched the surface of being there for his parents. He’d let himself get so wrapped up in a relationship that was never meant to be real when he could have spent every second of his free time with his father.

  He could have done more to make up for the time they’d already lost. And now there might not be any time left.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that I thought of him like that.”

  He stepped toward her, not knowing what it would matter if he told her now, because his father was possibly dying, and she was leaving, and he was going to be right back where he was six months ago when he thought he’d tested positive for the early-onset markers.

  Broken and alone.

  He grabbed her hand and pressed her palm to his chest where his heart hammered with worry. With anticipation. With the hope he had of figuring out a way for them to be together disintegrating. He didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve this type of happiness when he’d failed everyone else he loved.

  “It was one of the best nights for me too,” he finally said. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him. No mind-bending kiss. Just his body pressed to hers.

  He let out a long, shaky breath and squeezed her tight, like it was the last time he would.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a text. Sam. It was only two words but that was all it took.