Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 (22 page)

Her mouth fell open. What was he doing here, standing on the steps of her porch? No, he wasn’t just standing. He was
swaying
, for God’s sake, hips swaying from side to side like he was a cobra and she had a flute. Her heart did that weird lurching thing again, and for a split second, she was not only glad to see him, but really regretting not sleeping in something a whole lot prettier than a tank top and flannel shorts.

Rebel cleared his throat, breaking her spell. “Is that a knife?”

She looked at the knife, a big santoku that she rarely used because it didn’t come with a can-opener attachment. Jeez, it seemed even bigger in the pale light. And then she realized that perhaps she wasn’t as awake as she’d like to think.

Rebel took a step back. “I, uh, I need you.”

“Really?” Damn, she really wasn’t as awake as she wanted to be. She was hoping for a cool, don’t-give-a-shit attitude, and instead, she sounded like a hopeful teenager. She tried again. “Is that so?” There. That was better.

“Could you put the knife down?” Well, at least he sounded properly cowed. Next time he’d think twice before angling for a late-night booty call.

She glared at him as best she could, but he didn’t seem dangerous. At least, not any more than someone in those jeans normally did. “What do you want, Rebel?” She honestly couldn’t tell what she hoped he would say.

Keeping one eye on the knife, he answered, “Albert. He’s, well, I think he’s having a heart attack.”

She froze. A heart attack. That irregular heartbeat hadn’t been normal, and she’d been so wrapped up in her selfish little world that she hadn’t followed through like she should have.

“Come with me,” Rebel said, keeping his voice low and cautious. “He wants to see you.”

Albert needed her. The paralysis snapped and suddenly she was a whirl of motion. She raced back into the house, grabbing her pants and throwing her keys at Rebel at the same time. “Here. Get the Jeep started.”

By the time she got a T-shirt pulled on and her sneakers scooped up, he already had the Jeep parallel with the porch. She didn’t even have the door shut, and they were off.

“What are his symptoms? How long has he been having them?” she asked as she tried to cram a foot into a sneaker while the Jeep bumped over the gravel.

“He can’t move his left arm at all this time.”

“
This
time?” No, she had to have heard that wrong. That would mean that not only had Albert already had a heart attack, but Rebel had known about it. And done nothing.

Rebel nodded, looking far calmer than she felt, because she felt like she was about to lose it. “The first time, he just fainted. The second time—”

“The
second
time?”

“Madeline.” Was he scolding her? “I need you to calm down.”

“I need to have you arrested for elder abuse,” she snapped back. And she’d thought he was just a danger to her mental health? Damn it all, the man was a menace to society. “You intentionally withheld medical treatment from a man suffering from cardiac arrest? I swear to God, Rebel, if you weren’t driving, I’d punch you myself.”

“I didn’t withhold anything. I didn’t even realize he’d had one the first time, and I brought you to see him that evening. Remember?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Remember?”

She could not remember ever being this mad. It was one thing to be furious when Rebel wouldn’t tell her his name or how he paid those bills. But this was different. This was a matter of life and death, and he was acting like the mere mention of her one-night mistake would somehow make it all better. “Yeah, sure, I remember. I remember you sweet-talking your way into my bed and then acting like I’d trapped you the next morning. I remember you not showing up for days on end, and I remember you not bringing Albert to the clinic after the second one. I would certainly remember it if you had brought
your grandfather
to see me because he had chest pains.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand? Fuck you, Rebel. I understand perfectly. I understand that Albert’s had three heart attacks and if he dies, I understand perfectly that it’ll be because of you. I understand that you’ll have killed him.”

The Jeep squealed to a stop so hard that she just missed banging her forehead on the dash.

“You. Do. Not. Understand.” The way he said it, like not only did he believe it, but he’d fight to the death for it, whatever it was.

It scared the hell out of her. “Jesus, Rebel!”

“Albert is
dying
,” he went on, ignoring her. Just like he always did. “He refused to
let
me bring him in after that first time. He forbid me from
getting
you the second time. I haven’t left his side in days because I’ve been trying to convince him to let me take him to the hospital. He is dying, Madeline. It is his fate, and he is ready. What you don’t understand is that it isn’t the end. That’s not what we believe.”

His gaze was steady, his voice even. She could see the steady beat of blood through his jugular. He was telling the truth. Or thought he was, anyway. “So what do you believe? If he’s given up, why are you pissing me off in the middle of the night?”

Everything hard about the man got something closer to gentle. “You’ve got to believe me, Madeline. He didn’t want you to worry, that’s why he kept quiet.”

Lord, not that, not the special way he said her name that was his and his alone. Not when she was so mad at him. “So why now?”

“He wants to say goodbye.” He must have seen something in her face that he took as an invitation, because he reached over and stroked her cheek. “This isn’t the end, Madeline. It’s just the next step.”

She lurched away from that touch. No touching, none. Period, end of sentence. “I don’t believe you. I want to see him for myself.”

“Done.” And they were off again, barreling down roads she could barely see.

When they got to Albert’s house, Madeline was surprised by the number of cars there. Not as many as had been at the party the other night, but still, there were maybe ten. Rebel sped past all of them and nearly parked on the front step.

“Should I even bother to ask you to carry the duffel?”

“If it will make you feel better,” was the only answer she got before he hauled it out.

In they went. The first thing she saw was that Jesse wasn’t occupying the couch any more. Instead, he was leaning against the door. “Doc, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, the strain in his voice more notable than it had been in Rebel’s. He appeared almost upset.

“What’s going on, Jesse?” Not that she particularly trusted Jesse—he seemed like the textbook definition of irresponsible—but she needed a viewpoint different from Rebel’s, and Jesse lived here.

“He’s been holding on for you, I think, but he’s fading.” He sort of pivoted to Rebel. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get back in time.”

Rebel set the duffel down and then pulled a small bundle out of his shirt. “I’m ready,” he said, cutting through the crowd and kneeling down next to Albert.

Madeline recognized most everyone here. Walter White Mouse was sitting with two older men in a far corner, chanting and lightly beating a drum. Tara was here, holding a sleeping Nelly on her shoulder. “Doctor, I mean, Madeline.” She was somber, but she didn’t sound upset. “It’s his time.”

God, what if Rebel had been telling the truth? What if Albert hadn’t let him come get her? What if he didn’t want to be saved?

What if he died?

Suddenly, the lump in the back of her throat was huge and oppressive. Rebel was on his knees, holding Albert’s good hand in his and speaking in a low, soothing tone. Irma was behind Albert, wiping his head with a damp cloth. No one was acting like a crime—a murder—was occurring before them. And no one in the room was upset or mad or even confused about what was going on. Just her.

Rebel looked to her, his eyes wide and knowing. “Come,” he said, still speaking in a low tone. “He’s been waiting for you.”

She dug out the nitroglycerin pills. “Albert, take one of these. Please,” she added when she got down to his level.

He let go of Rebel’s hand just long enough to wave the vial off. “Don’t worry,” he said in English, which just about knocked her on her butt. But between the accent and the slurring that indicated he might also be having a stroke, he was almost impossible to understand. “It’s okay.”

Then he switched to Lakota, which seemed less difficult. Rebel began translating. “It is a good day to die,” and every head in the room nodded in agreement. “We will meet again on the other side.” Then he looked at Rebel, and patted his face. “I am...” Rebel’s voice faltered a little. Albert repeated it, so Rebel kept translating. “I am proud of you, my son. You will be happy when you find your own way. No one else’s.”

The lump in her throat got bigger, and no amount of swallowing was budging the damn thing. Why wasn’t Rebel more upset by this? He’d said it himself—Albert made him everything he was. Why wasn’t he fighting for his grandfather? Why was he just
letting
him go?

Then Albert looked at Madeline. “Don’t worry,” he said in English again. “It’s okay.”

God, she didn’t want to let Albert go. He was just a kind old man, a rock of goodness in this strange place, who seemed a hell of a lot more worried about her than he was about himself. She didn’t know if it was proper to touch him or not, but she didn’t care. She ran her hand down his face. “Thank you, Albert.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she was thanking him for, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Albert. And he’d wanted her here, like she was a part of the family.

The room was silent except for the steady sound of the drumbeat from the corner. The three men there kept chanting, the sound growing louder and louder as Albert’s breath got shallower and shallower.

No! No
, she prayed. It wasn’t too late. She lurched forward to begin chest compressions. She could save him. She knew she could.

Rebel latched onto her arm. “Let him go, Madeline.” He was doing it again, using that calm voice. “It’s his time.”

She tried to shake him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. “This is ridiculous!” she hissed. “He’s dying!”

He tightened his fingers as he hauled her to her feet and backed her away from Albert. “We all die,” he said in her ear as he stood her next to Tara. “Today is as good a day as any.”

“Here,” Tara whispered, and suddenly Madeline found herself holding the dead weight of a sleeping kindergartner. “Thanks.”

Damn it, she was trapped, and all she could do was watch Albert’s breathing get slower and slower. Rebel lit something on fire and held it near Albert, but the old man didn’t move except to draw in another breath. The seconds between one breath and the next stretched as time got blurry. No matter how much she blinked, the whole world just got blurrier. She could barely breathe, her throat was so closed up.

Albert’s chest rose. And fell.

And didn’t rise again.

The chanting from the corner peaked in a jarringly happy crescendo as Rebel did something she couldn’t see. The world had gotten too blurry, and all she could do was clutch Nelly to her chest because she needed to hold onto someone, someone real and solid and still breathing. Even asleep, Nelly felt like the safest person in the world right now.

Time stayed stretched. People started to move around, some of them even coming up to say things to her she couldn’t understand. She could tell they were talking to her, but the words all came out garbled. Maybe she signed the death certificate, maybe not. She didn’t know. Nothing anyone said or did made any sense.

Then Rebel was next to her, prying her arms away from Nelly and pulling the sleeping child away from her. Madeline clung briefly, but then Tara was there, taking her child back.

“Thank you, Madeline,” Tara said, She sounded like she was whispering at the end of a great tunnel. “Thank you for everything.”

For what?
Everything
? She hadn’t done
anything
, nothing she should have. She should have made Albert take the nitro pill and done chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth and gotten the man to a damn hospital. She should have
tried
to save him. But she hadn’t—she’d just let him die. She’d just let him die. She opened her mouth to say as much, and nothing came out but dead silence.

Rebel was still next to her. She thought he seemed upset too, finally upset. One arm was around her shoulders, and she found herself in a firm hug. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, so low that no one else could hear it. “It’s okay, babe.”

Not cry? What the hell? This was like some horrible, first-person version of
The Twilight Zone
, where doctors let people die and no one cried.

“It’s not okay,” she managed to get out. She sounded like she was choking. “He’s gone.”

The arms around her tightened. “You need to get out of here?”

Maybe she nodded or said yes or did something—she couldn’t tell, but then they were moving, his arm still holding her shoulders to his chest, still holding her together as the clear air hit her in the face. “We’re going, babe,” he said a little louder now. “Almost to the car.” But then he pulled up short.

She blinked, and blinked again, and the world un-blurred enough that she could see a dark shadow separate from a car.