Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) (13 page)

The man nodded and left the room as quietly as he’d entered. After six hours of testing, they’d moved him to a room. That had to be a good sign, right? Before she could resume pacing, the door opened again admitting a youngish-looking man with curly dark hair. A white lab coat contrasted with his rainbow patterned tie. The stethoscope bunched in his pocket lent an air of authority as did the tabbed folder he carried in his hand.

“You’re the doctor.” Rachel had to work hard at making it a statement, not a question.

“Dr. McMillan.” He extended his hand. “Neurology.”

Good grip for a brain surgeon. “Is Nick alright?”

He motioned toward the navy and tan upholstered lounger as he swung a chair around and straddled it. She took a step back and plopped down.

“That all depends on your definition of alright, Mrs. Davidson. We took an MRI of his brain and compared it to the scan taken in Rapid City. The blood clot appears to have shifted.”

Rachel bit the inside of her cheek and prayed for confirmation. “They told me it might and not to worry about it.”

“Well, to a point. Right now, it’s fine. If it shifts again, any number of things could happen.”

“Any number of things,” she echoed, taken off guard by the ominous warning. “How much danger is he in?”

“We’ve detected a slight swelling, nothing dangerous.” He tapped the spine of the folder on the back of the chair to sift stray papers in place. “Yet.”

Rachel ignored the small voice urging her to correct his misconception of her relationship with Nick. Dr. McMillan might not tell her if he knew they’d only met yesterday. “Slight swelling?” she urged.

“Very slight. We’ll keep him here until it disappears. If everything appears fine, he can leave tomorrow.” He opened the front cover of the folder and flipped through papers. “You’re not from Casper and I’m not familiar with the medical facilities close to Hawk Ridge, so I can’t offer any recommendations. I strongly urge you to find a neurosurgeon and have another MRI in about a week.”

“How long will his condition have to be monitored?”

“That’s tough to say.” The boyish appearance disappeared as he frowned and rubbed his hand across his face. “Brain injuries are unpredictable. Nothing says the clot won’t dissolve. Or, he may have years where the clot won’t bother him. Or, he may do something that loosens it again and it shifts causing some neurological deficit. At that point, you’re looking at surgery.” Dr. McMillan flipped the pages forward and studied the front page. “Your husband might consider doing some armchair rodeoing for awhile. Any extreme contact sport carries with it an elevated degree of injury re-occurrence. It may be an occupational hazard he’d want to avoid.”

Rachel concentrated on the lapel of the doctor’s lab coat where he sported a pin of a cowboy riding a bucking horse, the Wyoming logo. She sighed in defeat. “He’s ranked second going into the National Finals. That’s only a month and a half away.”

The doctor offered a sympathetic shrug and snapped the file shut. “That’s called priorities in life, Mrs. Davidson. If he stops, he may have a chance to make some great choices; if he doesn’t, he may not have any choices at all.”

Rachel felt the blood drain to her toes. “He’s not going to stop.”

The doctor straightened and stood. Tucking his file under his arm, he offered his hand once more. Rachel remained seated as they shook. A deep weariness enfolded her. Give up the Finals? She knew cowboys, she’d been raised by the best.

And the best never gave up.

As if reading her mind, the doctor smiled broadly revealing straight teeth and one tiny dimple in his cheek. “Talk to him. You’d be surprised at the choices people make when confronted with mortality.” He released her hand and scribbled on his notepad. He handed her the note with a room number, turned toward the door and opened it slightly. “We’ve moved him to a room. Give us about twenty minutes to get him comfortable. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. If you need anything, just ask the nurse.”

Rachel watched the door close behind him. Nice guy. A bit misguided, but a nice guy. Obviously, he didn’t know rodeo cowboys very well, and even more so, bull riders, if he thought a conversation or two could change their minds.

Bull riders lived for the adrenaline rush. They lived for the excitement. They lived for the glory. They lived to ride.

Rachel glanced out the window at the low, white clouds while she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. Just like her father who could never turn down the “ride of his life,” she bet Nick Davidson was no different. He exhibited stubbornness in spades. He wouldn’t listen to her. A half-hearted grin gave way to a chuckle as she punched in the phone number. Maybe if Nick wouldn’t listen to her, he’d listen to Uncle Mitch.

“Cauldwell, here,” her uncle’s voice barked into the phone after two rings.

“Uncle Mitch, it’s me, Rachel.”

“Rachel girl, where along the road are you? Where’s Nick?” He hesitated a second. “You haven’t tarred and feathered him yet, have ya?”

“No, but I’m pretty doggone close.” She relaxed back into her chair. Uncle Mitch would fix this. “We’re here in Casper, at the Med Center. Nick’s going to be here overnight.”

“What happened?”

Rachel drew a deep breath. “The blood clot in his brain shifted. Nothing serious, this time. They want to watch him overnight though, something about swelling and deficits and stuff. Anyway, Uncle Mitch, you’ve got to talk Nick out of riding anymore. He needs to give this up.”

“You know you don’t talk a cowboy outta nothin’. Nick’s been doing this long enough to make his own decisions.” Uncle Mitch paused, the silence shouting louder than words. “He knows the risks.”

“He’s not thinking straight right now. He’s bent on meeting you here in Casper and riding in this Regional Finale, a ride he doesn’t need. He’s already qualified for the National Finals, even if he might slip a little in the standings.” Rachel freed the exasperation she’d held in check all afternoon. “Uncle Mitch, any fall could hurt him. If this clot shifts again, it could kill him.”

Silence made a return appearance before her uncle mumbled beneath his breath. Rachel’s heart sank.

“Lord forgive me my evil tongue. Rachel, you know how this works. I’m his friend, not his doctor or his mother. If he needs a place to stay, we’ve got a room. If he needs a ride, we’ve got a driver now. But if you’re lookin’ to me to tell one of the finest bull riders I know to pick up his gear and head home, you’re lookin’ at the wrong man. A man makes his own decisions in life and lives with them.”

Raw tension scraped her throat. “Even if it could kill him?”

“It’s all part of the package. A man can’t be anything besides what he was born to be, and a cowboy is a cowboy no matter how you slice it. I got my prayers goin’ for Nick. But it’s all in the good Lord’s time.”

“We’re talking life and death here, Uncle Mitch.” She fought the frustration feeding her anger.

“Rach, I know you think every rider is goin’ to end up like your Dad, but--”

Rachel needed to get off the phone before flawed cowboy logic did her in. “Not everyone, just this one. Look, you’re right. There’s probably nothing to worry about. We’ll wait the night and see what happens. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“Atta, girl. You tell Nick I’ll see him tomorrow night either there at the Med Center or here at the arena. You get some sleep, alright?”

“Right.” She pressed the button to cut off any further words of wisdom her uncle might think to offer. The ache in her back demanded attention. She rubbed the knot. This day was not going the way she’d planned. She poked at the knot a bit harder. Not just today, the whole week was beginning to drive her bonkers. She straightened up and clutched the phone in her hand. Her day wasn’t through yet.

She checked her watch as she punched in the numbers to her private line at the office. Her voice mail registered fewer and fewer, but she still needed to keep in touch.

“Good afternoon, Bales, Everitt and Joyner, Rachel Hill’s office. May I help you?”

“Maddie.” Relief flooded through her at the familiar voice. Her secretary kept close tabs on her clients and knew the ins and outs of each account. She should have known Maddie would put in extra time to keep things working smoothly. “It’s me, Rachel. Why are you still at the office? It’s after six.”

“Where are you, Rachel? Please tell me you’re calling from home.”

“Close, but not quite.” Rachel crossed her legs as she basked in normalcy. The qualms of work she could handle. “I’ve run into another problem, but I’ll be on the road in the morning and in the office Friday morning. I was just calling to leave a message for you. Why are you still there?”

“You need to get back here, and fast,” Maddie lowered her voice as if trying to hide the conversation. “Tom Everitt’s been in an absolute stew since you talked to him on Tuesday. Mr. Everitt personally told me you’d be back on Thursday. Your accounts are on the line and Jim Allen’s been pressing to make them his.”

“Don’t worry, Maddie,” Rachel countered, accustomed to her secretary’s flair for the dramatic. “We had a little snag in plans, but I’m all done now. If Tom wants to chew me out personally, he knows my cell number, the phone’s always on. Friday, Maddie, I’ll square it all up Friday.”

“How’s your cowboy?”

“Funny. He’s not my cowboy. Anyway, he’s had a relapse, I’m calling from the hospital. Not to worry though, his cowboy buddies are all here, so I know I’m leaving him in good hands.”

“Glad to hear it. Hurry back, Rachel.”

“I will, I think I can beat this storm. See you Friday.”

Rachel pressed end and shook her phone a couple of times as if it held the answers to her questions like a child’s toy magic eight-ball. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone until she found Tom Everitt’s private cell number and tapped connect.

No point in blind-siding Tom. He didn’t like surprises.

“Hello?”

Rachel swallowed at the irritated tone greeting her. “Hi Tom, it’s Rachel.”

“Back in town already?” His voice softened. “Good. Look I have a meeting first thing in the morning, but we can meet with Jim at ten o’clock and work out the files.”

“Tom?” Her mouth went dry. “I won’t be in the office tomorrow.”

She practically felt the tension on Tom’s end slamming into her across the miles. “What now?”

“We’ve had a medical emergency.”

“Are you alright?” The catch in his voice was audible. “Car accident?”

Her muscles tightened. “No, I’m fine, but my passenger isn’t. He’s in the hospital.”

“So?” The coolness returned. “I’m certain the hospital staff is capable of doing their jobs allowing you to get back to yours, right?”

He had every right to be short with her. “Right. The problem is I can’t drive at night. I won’t be able to leave until morning.”

“Rachel.” Tom drew a breath and let it out on a sigh. “I need you here. At work. You were excused for two weeks and stretched it to three. I understand taking the time to get yourself pulled together. Trading stocks and building portfolios needs a sharp broker, one running at a hundred percent. Someone the firm can depend on. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I know, Tom. I appreciate your patience.”

“Three weeks away from your clientele is suicide for an average broker. Lucky for us, you’ve never been average.”

Her pulse slowed to normal at his compliment. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth. You have a rare quality, Rachel. You make your clients feel like they’re the only account that matters.” Ice cubes rattled in a glass as he stopped to take a drink. “Still, I can push company policy only so far. I expect you back to work on Friday. I will be in at noon to meet with you. If you’re not here, that’s it. There are not more chances. Is that understood?”

Relief coursed through her. “Thank you, Tom.”

The line went dead before she could assure him she appreciated the reprieve and wouldn't let him down. She couldn't. Not anymore.

Rachel slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. The muscles across her shoulders tensed. She didn’t even bother to reach for her earbuds. She’d been listening to parables all afternoon. Right now, the hum of the coffee maker in the corner was all she needed. She rubbed the back of her neck to ease the pain. First thing Friday morning, she’d stop by the Coffee Café and pick up Tom Everitt’s favorite pastry, then meet with him at noon and reassure him all was well and thank him profusely for understanding her delay. Tom prided himself on being a reasonable man. By the end of the day, things would be back to normal.

Rachel knew the Lord had all in hand. After all, He’d sent her on this mission.

She glanced down at her watch again. She really should check out the Dow and NASDAQ for the day’s trading, but her muscles ached and she recognized the familiar pain of a migraine gripping her skull. Grabbing her purse as she stood, Rachel reached for the door. She needed a dark room, some soothing music and sleep. She’d check out the stock indexes tomorrow and start being a broker again. Tomorrow she’d let the cowboy be a cowboy and just get on with it.

Tomorrow she’d walk away.

Piece of cake.