Princess of the Plains

by Katherine Rhodes

  “Glad to see you awake, Tate,” Deirdre said. “Don’t try to move, don’t try to talk yet. Give yourself a few minutes.”

  He noticed the eyebrows on his stepmother’s face were thinner. The chemo was starting to take hold. She shouldn’t be there.

  “Take another sip, Tate. There’s a lot going on here,” Fatima said.

  “Van…” He managed the word but it was garbled and painful.

  “The Gibbonses. They hit you. They’re in jail, awaiting trial.” Fatima gave him a smile.

  Something inside—not his body, but his mind—didn’t feel right. He grunted and his eyes fell closed again. As he drifted off, he heard Fatima whisper in his ear.

  “Love you.”

  ...It was again hours before he rose to the surface again. This time, the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been, but it wasn’t gone. Not by a long shot. His eyes drifted open, and instead of Fatima and Deirdre, it was his father and brother he saw this time.

  “Hey, Tate,” Reg said, walking over. “Deirdre had the doc up the pain med a little bit. She said you looked like you hurt a lot.”

  “Did,” he mumbled. “What happened? Can’t remember…”

  Caldwell and Reg looked at each other and Reg sighed. “I thought that might happen. Do you remember getting in the car?”

  The last thing he remembered was coming inside Fatima before the dance. He must’ve gotten in the car after that. “Remember leaving her place…”

  Caldwell and Reg looked at each other and sighed. “That’s going to make this a little more difficult, but I don’t think it’s going to stop anyone from prosecuting them.”

  Tate smacked his lips to get some moisture on them. “Them?”

  Reg pulled up a chair and sat down. Tate listened as he explained everything that had happened from the moment they walked out the door to the moment he had just opened his eyes, relatively free of pain. He was horrified at his own situation, and even more when his father told him the extent of his injuries, and slow-cranked the bed up for him to see.

  “That certainly explains the pain,” he mused, staring at the contraption holding his leg aloft. “How long have I been out?”

  “Four days since the accident,” Caldwell said. “You’ve been healing well though.”

  “‘Well’ doesn’t mean I’ll walk again.”

  “Yes, you will, son. Deej has already spoken to the best orthopedists in Texas. She has one of the best coming in tomorrow to look at your x-rays and check out your leg. The doctors are sure you’ll walk again.”

  “I could barely fucking walk before, Cald. Are you kidding me?”

  “Tate, please…” Reg said. “We’re going to get you moving again and we are going to do everything we can to get that leg working right.”

  “What’s ‘right?’” Tate asked. “You can’t make something right when it wasn’t right to begin with. Should have just taken it off and put me in wheelchair.”

  “That’s not right, Tate.”

  “What’s not right? What? Me wishing you’d just let the leg go? It’s useless, and now it’s even more painful than before. You think this is going to work again? It’s not! You might as well just order me the Roundabout and horn, because this isn’t going to work itself out!”

  “Tate, please—”

  “No. Get out. All of you. And don’t give me any more of that damn morphine! Get out!”

  Caldwell opened his mouth, but his father was smart enough to stop him from saying anything. Reg stood and motioned his oldest son to the doorway. He stopped in the curtain and looked back at Tate. “Let us know when you’re ready. We’ll be here, waiting for you.”

  Tate said nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  ...Three months later...

  Fatima watched from across the room as slowly Tate put one foot in front of the other, holding himself up on the parallel bars. It was clearly painful, but his therapist was a complete asshole and wouldn’t let him quit.

  It seemed it was the only thing he hadn’t given up on in the past few weeks. He had barely talked to anyone except Reg or Deirdre, and Deirdre only because she was a doctor. Fatima really wanted Tate to start talking to Caldwell again, because Reg needed to concentrate on his wife’s treatment.

  It was only after Reg begged him to consider talking to a therapist that he hadn’t been snapping people’s head off right and left—her’s included. Fatima was still cautious around him, but he had gotten better.

  A little.

  At least enough to let her back in.

  As he made it to the end of the bars, he stopped and the therapist seemed happy with that. He took a breath, and Fatima knew exactly what he was going to do. She stood slowly and shook her head.

  “Oh, God, no Tate. Don’t do that.”

  But he did. He let go of the bars and took a step. Then another. Then another—

  The therapist caught him before he hit the ground and twisted something. “Jackass. You’re not there yet.”

  “Screw off, I can do it.”

  “I said you can’t, and you won’t again. We have a lot more to work on. Your Wellbutrin doesn’t make you invincible.”

  Fatima raised her eyebrows and she saw Tate’s face darken. He wasn't happy she knew he was on antidepressants, but… why? What was wrong with them? He needed help, and whether it was a brace or a pill, it didn't matter to her.

  Walking over slowly to where he standing, she gave him an apprehensive smile. He didn't return it, but he did acknowledge her. “Why do you keep coming here?”

  “Because I care about you and I want to see your progress.”

  “I think you just come to gawk.”

  “Gawk at what? The progress you're making? Because that's pretty impressive.”

  He gave her the side eye. “Gonna tell everyone I'm weak and I need drugs for my depression?”

  “If you don't want me to say anything, I'm not going to. But it doesn't make you weak.”

  Pursing his lips, Tate stared at her. “Did you go to Caldwell's concert last night?”

  Fatima didn't know how to answer. She had, but she and Caldwell had stared at each other the whole time. Every song he sang was hers. And it wasn't like the people around her didn't notice. “Yep. I did. They're getting big, Tate. It was a major theater last night, four thousand seats, sold out. I think their opening for Shiloh has really boosted them.” She cut herself off when she realized the person asking didn't really care and just wanted to prove a point.

  And drive another wedge between them.

  Letting out an exasperated breath, Fatima headed back to her purse and coat, gathering them up. It was starting to be apparent that holding out hope was an exercise in futility. Tate wasn't interested in healing. Not himself, and not them. She wasn't even sure what they were anymore. She had no idea what had happened to them—to him.

  “Where are you going?” Tate’s tone was painfully mocking.

  “Home.”

  “Caldwell waiting for you?”

  She whirled as anger consumed her. “He's working at Big Butte this week, if you must know…and I'm not talking about going back to my apartment anymore. I'm going home. When my parents leave next week, I'm going with them. Back to New Jersey. I'm not going to stay here, and take your fucking abuse anymore.”

  “Good,” he said.

  Fatima turned to leave, but spun back. “You know, I've lost a whole year of my education and six months of my life to this fucking state. I didn't expect you, Tate. I have put my life on hold because I thought we might have something. But it turned out you aren't the strong, unshakeable man I first met. Good job on stringing me along, asshole. That sweet nerdy IT guy, way back when I first met you, is a damn lie. I'm going home, Tate. Back to New Jersey, and I'm done playing nice. I'll be glad to see something other than your depressing face all the time.”

  Turning again, she marched out of the physical therapy room, and followed the exit signs for her way out. She stormed over to her car and w
as barely able to keep the tears in until she had climbed into the driver's seat.

  Why? Why was this happening? She had really thought that Tate was the one. He wasn't perfect, and she didn't need perfect. He'd been real, and sweet. And good for her. She liked being around him… but now… after the accident, he'd turned into the biggest asshole ever.

  There was never any doubt in her mind she could live with his limitations. She'd have been happy to. But she couldn't go on with him like this. She wouldn't.

  Caldwell had been staring at her all night, singing to her, the sultry tones begging her to come to his bed. His actual bed this time. He'd never out and out ask her to sleep with him. He still loved his brother, but this was his way of telling her, he wouldn't turn her away.

  But this was all too complicated. It was time to go home. Time to finish her education and start working with animals like she'd always dreamed. And she wasn't changing her plans again for any man.

  No matter how sexy or sweet.

  * * *

  The doorbell interrupted her task of tossing all of the receipts around, trying to find the RAC Rental one so she could set up a pickup and return.

  She swore and stormed to the door. After spending nearly 3 hours on the phone with the airline, she was just in no mood for this. The airline claimed her ticket was expired, but she had paid for the open ended ticket. So while she was looking for the rental receipt, she was now also looking for the airline receipt in the computer.

  With a yank, she had the door open. “What?”

  There was a bouquet of flowers in front of her. Dahlias, of all sorts of colors and sizes, laced with baby's breath.

  Tate was holding them out.

  The flowers weren't quite as lovely anymore.

  “What are you doing here? Are you walking?”

  “Crutching it. I came to say I'm sorry. I was a jackass in the physical therapy session Monday. I know I was. I'm still all screwed up—”

  Fatima held up a hand. “For the love of God, come in and sit down. You can't be comfortable on those crutches.”

  “It's still a little hard to walk and stand, yes.”

  Stepping out of the door, she watched him crutch his way into her kitchen and plop down in the chair. He held out the flowers again, and shaking her head, Fatima accepted them.

  “I'm sorry, Tee. I've been terrible to everyone. I admitted taking the meds to my dad and he was proud of me. I had to reconsider everything when he wasn't pissed at me, or thought less of me.”

  Sitting at the table with him. Why would anyone think less of you for wanting to be better? You've been through a lot, Tate. This is just more of the same, and you know how much your dad wanted to help you.”

  “Now I know. I'm tired, Tee. I'm so tired of fighting. Myself, this disease, the Gibbonses. It starts to wait you down. I have felt like it would just be easier on everyone if I went away.”

  “Hey. No.” She placed her hand over his. “Don't think like that. Your family loves you. Your friends all want you here. Don't think like that.”

  “I was, a lot, before. Not so much now though.” He smiled.

  ...but there was something off in his smile. Something she couldn't put her finger on. Not dishonest, but not forthcoming either. Studying him, she knew what he was going to ask.

  She answered preemptively. “I’ve already lost this year. I can stay for a little while longer, but I have to be back for my program in the fall. No questions asked.”

  He smiled and took her hand. “I’m sure that by then, there will have been lots of decisions made. Thank you.”

  * * *

  He was standing in the door of the bedroom.

  Fatima didn’t want to turn around. Turning around would mean she acknowledged him. But he wasn’t leaving, and she needed to get this over with. He was leaning on the frame when she finally righted herself.

  “You’re giving him another chance.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Caldwell?”

  “Not give him a chance. He’s treated you like shit for three months. One bouquet of flowers and half assed apology, and you’re all about him again?”

  She threw the bag on the bed. “I am not all about him again. I know what he treated me like. But he was sincere today and I’m willing to give it a try. He said he loved me.”

  Caldwell leaned up from the door and took a few steps in. “And he hasn’t said it since, you told me that.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. You really want me to just walk away from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, that’s—” She shook her head. “I can’t. I love him. I can’t just walk away from him like that. He’s still in pain, and he’s still getting his meds adjusted.”

  Caldwell shook his head. “So you’re just not going to give up?”

  She threw a towel at his head. “You’re not giving up either, are you, Caldwell?! You’re not walking away from me. Why the hell should I give up on someone I love? I have been hoping he would come to this point, and now he’s here.”

  “Everything we were talking about this week?”

  “Stop! Stop it! I told you months ago, I’m with Tate. I told you this week, I’m leaving because of Tate. Now I’m staying because of him. Tate. Not you, Caldwell. Don’t think that I’m here for you. I’m tired of Texas and it’s been unkind to me.”

  “You can’t really—”

  “Stop saying I can’t! I can. I am. The day you can stop thinking about me...about whatever the hell this is between us… is the same day I’ll stop worrying about your brother. He’s your goddamn brother, Caldwell. I love him!”

  Caldwell walked straight up to her and carefully grabbed her chin. “And tell me you don’t love me. Tell me. We may have only had that one time together, but tell me you aren’t in love with me too.”

  “Stop, please, stop. Caldwell, I can’t do this…”

  “I’ll say it. I love you. And I love you enough to wait for you. I love you enough to let you go to my brother. But don’t you ever forget that. Don’t you ever forget that you love me too.”

  He stared into her eyes, studied her face for a moment, then kissed her lips-—soft, sweet, tender. “I do love you, Fatima. I wish you would have picked me.”

  Releasing her, he turned and walked out of her room.

  She collapsed on the bed in tears when the front door closed behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  After finding the back door open, he slipped through the dark of the house. Hoping not to trip on anything, the locked door of the study was just ahead.

  Fortune had smiled, and he'd been able to swipe the key and make a copy. Dr. Deidre Verhoven was a fastidious woman and there was never a time she didn't lock the locks and close the shades.

  The door opened with a quiet click and he slipped in, pulling the door shut. Using only the dim light of his phone screen, he walked to the elaborate desk she'd set up and pulled the bottom left drawer.

  Locked.

  A quiet swear escaped his lips, but he wasn't out of the game. He pulled open the center drawer, and studied the contents in the inadequate light of the phone—he couldn't afford more light though. He saw a worn spot on the right, and slid his hand along it—bingo. The release button.

  The mechanism clicked, and he quickly pulled the bottom drawer open. Inside was a locked box, with a spin dial combination. It wasn't spun well—the first number, moved up one digit, released the lock.

  Without a sound, he pulled the lid up and the contents were bright blue-white in the light of the phone screen. The tamper resistant printing glimmered, and he reached for the stack.

  He stopped for just a moment, then lifted the first four pads from the stack and took the ones at the bottom. He did that three more times, for a total of four very valuable pads that the doctor would not notice missing for at least a week, if not longer.

  Reversing every step, and move and lock he'd open, he stole back out of the desk, out of the office and out the backdoor
to the car that he'd hidden there.

  Too easy.

  * * *

  The Frisbee landed in his sandwich and Tate wanted to be pissed. But the move brought Fatima close enough for her to drop a kiss on his lips, and that made him smile.

  “You're doing okay over here?”

  Tate nodded. “Absolutely. The potato salad is excellent company.” He stabbed a potato and took a large bite.

  “I like you this way, Tate. The funny, sarcastic you is amazing.”

  He grinned and she ran off to join the Frisbee game again. Several of the youngest McCoys were trying to keep up, but they were mostly still toddlers. At least two plunked down to eat some grass before their mothers (and one father) came screaming over to yank the plants out of their mouths.

  The bench shook, and Tate looked over his shoulder. Joseph McCoy sat there, leaning back on the table, and grinning at his wife in the field, trying to teach a little one to catch.

  “How's the leg, Tate?”

  “It's a leg. Been really uncooperative in therapy, that's for sure.”

  “Have you thought about going after the Gibbonses for compensation? I don't usually advocate lawsuits, but the Gibbonses are criminally negligent at the least.”

  He shrugged. “I'm alive. I'm getting better slowly. The less we all have to deal with those creeps the better off we all are.”

  “Ryder tells me you've always had to deal with those creeps.”

  Tate sighed. “Ever since dad moved the ranch here. Their father had been one of the premier ranchers in the area, but when the former mayor of Dallas moved in...well, they got all jealous. They've never attacked Big Butte directly. But they'll go after anyone and everyone remotely tied to it. Geo, Addie’s boyfriend, can't go to a call involving them. They'll attack him. Because me, Caldwell, and RJ are friends.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I stand by my suggestion. Also… I wanted to, well… offer up my wife. As it were.”