Rough Creek

by Kaki Warner

  At first Raney thought it was funny the way the oversized cowboy hopped and flapped like a cartoon chicken. Then she realized he was actually getting stung.

  Alarmed, she raced to the car and yanked open the back door. “Get in,” she shouted, and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  He flung himself onto the seat behind her, cussing and waving to head off the wasps trying to follow him in. “Drive!” he shouted as he slammed the door. “Maybe the wind will suck them out.”

  She drove, flinching every time she heard him swat a wasp on the seat, the headrest, the ceiling, the window. She’d have to have the car detailed before Mama saw it. She hit the controls to open all the windows. After a few minutes, things got quieter behind her. She checked the rearview mirror and saw him flinging dead yellow jackets out the window.

  “I think I got them all,” he said. “You can slow down now.”

  She glanced at the speedometer and saw she was going over seventy on a fifty-five-mile-an-hour road. Easing off the gas, she looked for a place to pull over.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Damn bastards got me good.”

  Seeing a wide graveled spot where a ranch road joined the highway, Raney turned in, put the car in park, and swiveled to look in the backseat. She had been a Girl Scout. She knew yellow jackets could sting multiple times and the pain from their venom lasted a long time. And she also knew too much venom could send a person into shock. “How many times did they get you?”

  “Not sure. A dozen or so.”

  “Are you allergic to bees?”

  “They weren’t bees.”

  “Are you allergic!” she repeated, trying not to panic.

  “Not that I know of.”

  She dug through the console to see what might help. Nothing for insect bites, but several pairs of sunglasses, hairspray, Kleenex, a year’s supply of antibacterial gel, and at the very bottom, a small bottle of Benadryl.

  She popped the lid, shook out two pills, and passed them back. “Take these.”

  “I don’t have any water.” Even in the dim light, she could see the bumps rising on his neck.

  “Do it anyway!” She jumped out of the car and started toward the rear door, then remembered they’d left the cooler and all their ice by the picnic table. Damn!

  She got back in and checked the map on the GPS display. Eight miles to the next town. Hopefully, something would be open. “How do you feel now?”

  “Same as before. Maybe a little dizzy. Why are you getting so worked up?”

  “I’m not worked up.” She opened her door again. “Get out.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I need to see how many times you were stung and if the stingers are still in you. Just do it, Dalton. Please.”

  “Well, since you said ‘please.’ First time, I might add.” He got out, moving slow, keeping a grip on the top of the doorframe for balance.

  She stood beside him, cell phone in hand. “Take off your shirt.”

  He gave that sideways grin. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Stop fooling around, Dalton! I need to see if you’re all right!”

  He took off his shirt.

  Using the flashlight on her phone, she saw two red swollen spots on his forehead, five more on his neck and shoulders, and at least six on his arms and hands. Thirteen, minimum. Three of them had stingers in them, two of which still had venom sacs attached. She would have to get those off before they popped and released more venom. Reaching into the car, she found her wallet and pulled out a credit card. “I’ll try to be gentle, but this may hurt.”

  “I thought that was my line.”

  “You’re being an asshole and I don’t appreciate it. Now stand still!”

  He stood still.

  She carefully scraped off the stingers with the edge of the card, checked the others again to make certain she hadn’t missed any, then told him to put his shirt back on and get in the car.

  “If I’ll be good, can I sit up front? There’s bug guts in back.”

  She ignored him, slid behind the wheel, and shifted into drive.

  He climbed into the passenger seat, shirt on but unbuttoned. She thought his face looked pale, but it was hard to tell in the glare of the interior lights. He took a deep breath and let it out. It seemed labored, but she wasn’t sure.

  “You having any trouble breathing?” she asked.

  “No, but my tongue feels fat.”

  “Buckle up.” She hit the gas, fishtailing and flinging gravel as the tires dug in. As soon as the car reached pavement, she put her phone in the dash cradle, punched 911, and turned on her hazard lights.

  The operator’s voice blasted through the car speakers. “911, what is your emergency?”

  “The guy with me was stung by at least thirteen yellow jacket wasps. I think he’s going into shock.”

  “I’m not going into shock.”

  Raney shushed him and told the operator that he didn’t know if he was allergic to bees but she had given him two Benadryl anyway. She added that his neck was a little swollen, he was slightly dizzy and said his tongue felt fat.

  “What is your location?” the operator asked.

  “Heading down Highway 6, a few miles south of the I-20 turnoff. We’re in a 2016 dark blue Expedition—I don’t remember the plate number—and I have the flashers on.” She glanced at the display map. “Gorman is the next town. Are there any EMTs there? Or a clinic or doctor?”

  The operator said she’d dispatch an ambulance to the Shell station on her approach into town and for Raney to please stay on the line.

  “I’m not going into shock,” Dalton said again. “I’ve been there and this isn’t it.”

  “I hope not.” Raney slowed for a turn, then stepped on the gas again when the road straightened. The steering wheel bounced in her hands as the car shimmied and rocked over the uneven surface, the big motor roaring.

  He laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “Hell of a first date.”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “Road trip.”

  “It’s a rescue mission. That’s all.”

  “Hell of a rescue mission, then.” The words were slow, almost mumbled.

  Terrified, she shot him a glance. His mouth was open, slightly slack. “Are you going to sleep? Or passing out?”

  He didn’t open his eyes. “I’m fine. Watch the road.” The places on his face and neck were now the size of marbles. The hand resting on his thigh looked swollen, the long fingers puffy.

  Raney focused on her driving, eyes burning, fear clogging her throat. How could someone so strong die of a wasp sting? That familiar, stomach-churning sense of helplessness pressed against her chest. It was Daddy all over again.

  “I’ve got you on my screen, ma’am,” the 911 operator said. “How’s he doing?”

  “The swelling’s worse. He’s breathing okay, but he may be passing out.”

  “I’m not passing out. I’m just afraid to watch.”

  “You should be approaching the Shell station,” the operator said. “There’s an ambulance waiting.”

  “I see it.” First, the Shell sign, high up on a tall pole, then below it, flashing red lights. “I’m coming up on it now.”

  “Then I’ll be hanging up, ma’am. Good luck.”

  Raney moved her foot from the gas to the brake and pressed hard. In a swirl of dust, the Expedition came to a sliding stop ten feet short of the ambulance.

  Thank you, God.

  Her hand shook so much it was an effort to get the gear lever into park and punch the ignition button on the dash. As soon as the motor died, two men in blue uniforms pushed a gurney loaded with medical cases toward the car. After hitting the power button to unlock the doors, she slumped back into the seat, so relieved she was almost light-headed.
“Dalton, wake up. The EMTs are here.”

  “Not asleep.” His head rolled toward her. His forehead was so distorted with swelling he looked like Quasimodo. He lifted his head off the headrest and studied her. “Are you crying?”

  “I never cry.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

  Before she could tell him to stop calling her sweetheart, the door beside him opened, and the EMTs took over.

  They didn’t use the gurney, but let Dalton sit in the car while they pumped him full of epinephrine, checked his vitals, put him on oxygen as a precaution, and gave him something for pain and to reduce inflammation.

  Within minutes, Dalton sank into a drug-induced doze.

  While he slept, the EMT with TOM stenciled on his shirt checked all the places Dalton had been stung. Gouging, pressing, poking. Dalton never flinched.

  The other EMT, Roger, came around to Raney’s window to ask her questions while he filled out various forms. Probably trying to distract her from what Tom was doing.

  She didn’t know anything about Dalton’s medical history, other than what he’d said about not being allergic to bees, so she mostly answered his questions about what had happened, where they were from, and where they were going. Then he answered her questions about how Dalton was doing and what she should do next.

  “He’s not anaphylactic,” Roger assured her. “And he doesn’t need to be transported to a hospital. But he’ll be pretty uncomfortable for a while. It might have been worse if you hadn’t given him the antihistamine.”

  At least she’d done something right this time.

  Roger gave her a detailed list of things to do until Dalton could follow up with his primary care physician: Ice the worst stings, ten minutes on, ten off. Treat them with ammonia and alcohol or a paste made of water and baking soda. Since he had so many stings, an Epsom salt bath might provide relief. He could take ibuprofen for pain and inflammation, but no more than 3,200 mg a day until his doctor checked him out, and an antihistamine as per the directions on the bottle.

  “He a vet?” Tom asked, drawing her attention to the other side of the car.

  Dalton was still dozing. His oxygen mask was gone and Tom was sealing a hazardous waste bag filled with various wrappers and used medical paraphernalia. “I noticed what looks like a shrapnel scar by his waist.”

  “I don’t know,” Raney said. “He was in Iraq but he doesn’t talk about it.”

  “Most vets don’t.” Tom tossed the hazardous waste bag onto the gurney and closed his medical case. “He’s a big guy. This many stings on a kid would be problematic, but Dalton should be fine.” He straightened and put the case on top of the unused gurney. “Slow down and drive safe,” he called back as he pushed the gurney toward the open doors on the back of the ambulance.

  “Keep an eye on him for the next twelve hours,” Roger said, still bent by her window, hand resting on the top of the car. “If he shows any breathing problems or has a feeling of swelling in his tongue or throat, take him to emergency. Meanwhile, do what I told you and have him follow up with his doctor as soon as he gets home.” He looked at Dalton one more time. “Don’t be surprised if he sleeps all the way to Waco.” He straightened, thumped the roof of the car, said, “Y’all be careful now,” and walked away.

  Raney watched them drive off, then went into the Shell station bathroom. She was still shaky from the adrenaline rush but it was fading fast, leaving behind a knot of tension in her stomach. In the cracked mirror above the sink, her eyes looked swollen and red rimmed. Like she’d been crying. Which she hadn’t done in nine years.

  He’s alive, she told herself. He’s okay. It’s not like Daddy.

  After splashing her face with cold water, she took a few deep breaths, then went back to the car. Dalton was still dozing, mouth open, snoring softly. Not wanting to wake him, she grabbed her cell phone and went behind the car to call Joss and tell her to find a hotel because they would be staying overnight in Waco.

  She expected a protest.

  Instead, Joss told her Mama had already taken care of everything. “She tried to call you. She decided she didn’t want us driving so late and got adjoining rooms at the Hilton, 213 and 214. I’ll text you the address as soon as we hang up. She even had them send a shuttle for me, so I’m already settled in our room, munching on a Cobb salad she had room service bring. Who’s the guy with you?”

  How like Mama to leave that explanation to her. “A trainer who works at the ranch. Look, Joss, we still have a ways to go, so I better—”

  “Do I know him?”

  Raney closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready for this. She was tired, had a grinding headache that was making her slightly nauseated, and didn’t want to get into long explanations when she still had an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of her.

  But she probably should prepare Joss so her sister didn’t say something tacky.

  “It’s Dalton Cardwell.”

  “Beanpole? I remember him—wait! Isn’t he the guy who killed Jim Bob Adkins and went to prison? Oh my God, you hired an ex-con?”

  “Actually, Mama hired him. It’s late, Joss, I—”

  “What’s he like? You know, after being in prison? That can really screw up a person, I hear. Is he dangerous?”

  “No, he’s not dangerous. He’s not a beanpole anymore, either. In fact, he’s big enough to get stung thirteen times by yellow jackets without going into shock.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. Call Mama for me and tell her we’re almost to Waco and to stop worrying.”

  “But—”

  “My phone’s going dead, Joss. See you soon.” She ended the call and got back into the car.

  Seconds later, Joss’s text came in with the address of the hotel. Raney put it into the GPS system, started the car, and pulled back onto Highway 6, which would take them all the way to Interstate 35 in Waco.

  Dalton continued to snore.

  A nearly full moon rose out of the east, which meant deer would be all over the road. Remembering what the EMTs said, Raney drove slower and watched harder, which only added to her weariness. She combated it by making lists.

  She was good at lists. She liked that sense of accomplishment when she scratched off each item. Lists were a necessary part of running a ranch as big as Four Star, and in this case, they kept her awake.

  Fresh underwear. Something to sleep in. Tank top. Check.

  She wondered if she should get anything for Dalton, then decided against it. He would probably see her buying him boxers and a shirt as a marriage proposal. She glanced over, wondering if he wore boxers. Or anything. Not something she wanted to dwell on, yet, oddly, she did. Which led to her wondering why he kept making passes at her and insisting on calling her sweetheart. Assuming they really were passes. It had been so long she wasn’t sure.

  Baking soda, alcohol, ammonia, Epsom salts. Check. More Benadryl, ibuprofen, cotton pads. Check. What else?

  She tried to remember what was in her purse. A brush and gloss. That was it.

  Foundation, blush, mascara. Check. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Check. Whatever she forgot, Joss would have. Her sister couldn’t travel across a room without her makeup case in hand. Unless she’d left it on the bus with her clothes.

  At nine thirty, Raney turned onto Interstate 35 south of Baylor University, and was backtracking north when the GPS lady started in with directions to the hotel.

  “What?” Dalton said, struggling to sit up.

  “Sorry. It’s the GPS. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  He looked around, his face not as swollen, but still lumpy. She couldn’t take him through the Hilton lobby looking like that. They’d have to go through the garage or an exit door around back.

  “Where are we?” he mumbled.

  “Waco. We’re staying here tonight. Mama g
ot us adjoining rooms at the Hilton. Joss is already there.”

  “We’re staying here? In Waco?”

  “Yes, Dalton.” Had the venom reached his brain? “How do you feel?”

  “Like I just woke up.” He poked at a lump on his arm and winced. “And sore.”

  Raney saw a lit-up WALMART sign ahead on the right and made a quick decision. “Do you mind if we make a short stop before we go to the hotel? I’d like to get some things at Walmart since I didn’t pack anything.”

  “Can I stay in the car?”

  “I insist on it.”

  Luckily, the off-ramp passed directly by the Walmart parking lot. She turned in, found a place close to the nonfood entry, and parked.

  “Can you get me something to eat?” he asked.

  “At Walmart? This time of night?” She shuddered. “We’ll get something at the hotel. I won’t be long.” She opened her door, then hesitated. “You want me to get you anything? Other than food?”

  “Like what?”

  “Underwear? A shirt? Socks? A toothbrush?”

  “Okay,” he said around a yawn.

  She waited. The yawn ended. His eyelids drooped.

  “What size, Dalton?” she prodded in a loud voice.

  He blinked at her.

  “Underwear, shirt, socks?”

  “Boxers, 36. Socks, big. T-shirt, 2XL. Blue.”

  “Blue T-shirt?”

  “Toothbrush.” He gave her a sleepy grin. “So we don’t get ours mixed up.”

  The man was relentless.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, and got out.

  Actually, it took longer than she anticipated because she wanted to get the most garish, outrageous, tacky boxers she could find. She had to settle for orange-and-white plaid with a Texas Longhorns logo, and a Mickey Mouse toothbrush.

  “Can you tell time?” Dalton groused after she loaded her bags in the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. “You said a minute. Not forty-seven of them.”

  She smiled sweetly. “The meds must be wearing off. Luckily I got more.”

  “And how do you start this thing? I about died of suffocation with all the windows closed.”