Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) (16 page)

The black leather Bible looked brand new, the cover never lifted from the page. Understandable. Those that depended on the Word daily probably brought their own, and those that didn’t more than likely didn’t think about finding God now. Nick rubbed his hand over the smooth cover and inhaled deeply of the familiar smell that seemed the trademark of every Bible he’d ever known. Memories flooded through his mind, but he shoved them aside. He was on a mission.

Nick returned to bed and eased back under the covers. Cradling the Bible between his hands, he fanned the pages forward and backward, catching snatches of phrases, pieces of words. Warmth filled his palms as he thumbed through familiar books, automatically searching for beloved passages. Nick closed the cover and swallowed hard. This wasn’t working. He’d never get the answers he looked for until he gave up the search.

Okay, Lord. If all the answers to life are here, show me.

Nick let the pages part where they would and began reading.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

What if Uncle Mitch was wrong?

Rachel tossed and turned on the hard mattress of the king-sized bed. Finally, she sat up and turned on the bedside light that illuminated a motel room hardly different than the many others she’d stayed in over the last month. She drove her hands through her hair, interlocking her fingers in the mess and settled her elbows on her raised knees.

Sometimes the decisions a man makes in life need to be thought out before he has to live with the consequences. Nick wanting to play Russian roulette with his life was one thing. She could chalk his stupidity up to scrambled brains. But, Uncle Mitch? Why was he encouraging Nick? Couldn’t he see one more fall could cost Nick his health, if not his life?

Of course, Uncle Mitch understood the implications. It was Rachel who’d forgotten how her uncle operated. Uncle Mitch released all to the Lord, praying like mad on behalf of every hurting soul he encountered. Deep in her heart, Rachel knew Uncle Mitch had exhausted every avenue possible to protect Nick and came up empty. No longer a Rachel or Mitch matter, it now belonged to God.

But Nick isn’t listening, is he, Lord?

And why in the world did she care? Nick was still a virtual stranger, and a cowboy to boot. She’d moved far from the ranch years ago to escape even the remotest possibility of ever getting involved with a cowboy. She’d been rather successful, too. In Denver, she’d had her share of dates with men – predictable men – men who left for work in the morning and returned to their homes in the evening. Men who frequented classic theater and fine restaurants, who enjoyed baseball games and weekend barbecues. Men that fit her ideals to a T.

So many to choose from.

Someday, she’d make her choice.

She shook the diverting thoughts away. Dating was not the problem at hand, she’d deal with her personal life when she returned home. Right now, she needed to sweep away all thoughts of Nick Davidson. She needed to sleep peacefully knowing she’d done all she could to make Nick see reason.

Besides, matters on the home front needed cleaning up and they certainly didn’t have anything to do with cowboys or relationships. Having agreed to pick up Nick in the morning dented her day. She’d told Maddie she’d be in the office tomorrow morning. First thing.

Rachel rubbed her eyes until she saw stars. Two weeks leave-of-absence, plus one week more just to make sure she had her head on straight. One week to drive Mitch’s cowboy. She grabbed handfuls of hair again, tugging hard at her roots while her vision readjusted. That came to almost four weeks - suicide for most financial investment careers. She glanced over to her laptop. A quirky bubble of laughter rose in her throat. Financial investments? Dow Jones, NASDAQ, commodities? Where was the market? She hadn’t a clue. She hadn’t checked any of the indexes in days. Intentionally. What good was taking a break from work if she kept working? Guilty silence enveloped her.

Lord, my direction here is clear as mud.
I need to return to Denver, yet why do I feel like my work here isn’t finished?
Even as she made her plea for guidance, a plan started to formulate in her mind. A plan that defied all the common sense in her being. A plan flying on faith alone.

What other choice do I have?

She reached for her MP3 player. Uncle Mitch was right, she repeated to herself as she settled the earbuds in place and clicked on the power. Uncle Mitch knew only God understood rodeo bull riders. The comforting strains of Bach filled her mind as she plumped her pillows and lay back down. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine sandy beaches and blue sky, but all that came to mind was a cowboy with sandy blond hair and eyes as blue as forever.

And a hare-brained scheme she couldn’t imagine ending well.

* * *

“Good morning, cowboy.” Rachel strode into the hospital room, her long practiced smile pasted on her face. Doubt over her plan niggled at her mind. Too late now to regret anything. She’d committed, and God help her, she’d see it through. “Let’s get out of here. It’s time to hit the road.”

“It’s seven o’clock. I thought hotel check out wasn’t until eleven.” The deep rumble came from the corner of the room. Nick sat up straight in the hospital room lounge chair looking like he’d slept in his worn jeans and rumpled shirt.

“I’ve got a long way to go. No point in wasting daylight.” She stared at the circles beneath his eyes and the night growth of stubble covering his jaw. He looked a mess. But then, hospitals weren’t known for their 5-star comfort factor. “I thought you’d be in a great mood. You’re free.”

“Hallelujah.” His scowl only accentuated the dark circles blending with the purple-green bruises around his eyes. “I’ve had enough people messing with my head to last a lifetime.”

“C’mon, breakfast is on me.” A genuine smile tugged at her lips reassuring her she’d made the right decision. For being a loner, Nick had certainly had more people poking and prodding at him over the last week. Including her. She pushed the nurses’ call button on the panel of his bed. “I parked out front. Real close to the door.” She winked. “Let’s get you checked out.”

The nurse she’d talked to at the desk about Nick’s release appeared in the doorway. “Here are the prescriptions and this is the list of your local area physicians. Dr. McMillan spoke to you about the recommended appointments?”

Rachel nodded. The list of do’s and don’ts of recuperation were safely hidden in her back pocket. “And the warning signs to watch for to indicate a relapse,” she added. Essentially, they were back to square one as far as care and treatment went. But that was okay, this time Rachel was prepared.

She reached for the duffel on the bed and wrapped her fingers around the worn straps. “Ready?”

He didn’t respond at first. Rachel resisted taking a step to help. The vinyl armrest squeaked within his grip. A sigh - so soft she almost missed it - seemed to age him beyond his thirty-four years. If there had been any indecision over her plan, that simple testament to his weariness wiped away all doubt. Nick needed rest; he needed comfort. He needed to be saved from himself.

Maybe if someone had initiated tough love on her father so many years ago, he’d be a different man today.

Tears stung her eyes and Rachel forced them away. This wasn’t the time for what-ifs. It was time for action. “Nick? Are you alright?”

The muscles in his arms bunched as he pushed up from the chair, his face flushed, the familiar press of his lips in place. Rachel had to give him credit. Other than his verbal barbs, he kept his pain to himself. He stood straight and met her gaze with a stone-cold stare. “Yeah.”

He brushed her hand aside and lifted his duffel bag from the bed, grabbed his jacket and turned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll be right back with the wheelchair.” The nurse turned toward him. At his scowl, she scurried out of the room as if a fire alarm had just sounded in the hallway.

“I don’t need a wheelchair,” he practically yelled after her.

“No need to frighten the villagers,” Rachel forced calm into her voice. “Hospital rules, remember?”

She reached for his arm, appreciating the fit of his white shirt and faded jeans. His worn leather belt and scuffed boots completed the look of the perfect cowboy. Heat radiated from beneath his shirt. At the moment, she couldn’t tell if the fever came from him or from her nerves.

An argument warred across his face, but he stayed in place. She knew she was in for trouble, he wasn’t going to take her plan lightly. She mentally stiffened her backbone. He was going to do it her way, or she’d just leave him here. Maybe she could reconsider springing him from the hospital until he saw reason.

“Here we go.” The nurse stopped in the hallway.

Too late. Rachel released his sleeve and tucked her hand into her pocket. Nick passed her without a hitch and settled into the waiting wheelchair, his duffel on his lap. She inhaled deeply of his scent, her heart giving way to a little flutter. Nick had complained of people messing with his head. He had no idea what he did to hers.

They wove their way through the maze of corridors and down the elevator. At the entrance to the lobby, the nurse wished them well as Nick pushed out of his seat and took off for the truck seemingly unaware of the snowflakes blowing around him. Rachel had spoken to the nurse earlier about hospital procedure, the wheelchair, and stubborn cowboy pride. The nurse had hesitated over the arrangement, but in the end, acquiesced, and now stood at the door, hawk vision trained on her charge. Rachel bid the nurse goodbye for the both of them mouthing “thank you” for the favor.

By the time she reached the driver’s side, Nick had tossed his bag and jacket into the back of the cab and settled into the passenger seat. She slid behind the wheel and glanced over at him as he stared ahead, his brows slightly drawn. Rachel knew that look. He was thinking and that didn’t bode well for her.

Lord, we all know this is for the best. Help Nick see reason.

After struggling all night with the situation weighing on her, Rachel had called Tom’s private cell number only to get his voicemail. The timing of this decision couldn’t have been worse and she wanted to discuss it with Tom - and only Tom. They needed to hash out the important issues of her career. There was more to life than money and the managing of it. She’d come close to a nervous breakdown before she’d realized it.

Hearing Tom’s monotone invitation to leave a message, she’d hung up. Pressure built behind her eyes at the frustration hindering her at every turn. She punched in the number again. She’d left him a message rather than contacting Maddie. It was the right thing to do.

Funny thing. . .at the moment, Tom’s opinion of her decision didn’t matter too much to her.

She looked at the keys in her hand. Which option would work best? Should she leave the parking lot and risk having her conversation with Nick while distracted by traffic, or should she just slug it out here? She fingered the keys still warm from the heat of her pocket.

Nick angled his chin as she shoved the keys into the pocket of her jeans. A frown darkened his crystal blue gaze. “Don’t you need keys to drive?”

“Not until we have a little chat--”

“I don’t want to talk. I’ve had enough talking to last me through the rest of the year.” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “Just go.”

Something about his command shot her good intentions of a reasonable discussion to pieces. “We’re not going anywhere until we get something straight. First of all, cowboys are the most hard-headed, stubborn lot the good Lord ever put on the face of this planet. Rodeo cowboys are the worst. Stock contractors are right up there at the top of the list of mush for brains, too.” She gestured with her hands, accidentally smacking the side window with her knuckles. She shook the sting from her fingers and grabbed the steering wheel. Rachel glared at the huge flakes of snow gathering on the windshield. “Apparently, nobody here is capable of making a rash and sound decision, so please allow me.”

Nick jerked around, the bruises around his eyes deepening to purple. “Rachel--”

She lifted her hand in the universal symbol to stop. “Shush, I’m not done. Now, the way I see it, you want to go back to a rodeo this weekend that does nothing for your standings in qualification for the National Finals.” Her fingers splayed, she began to tick off her reasons. “You plan on riding a bull . . . despite knowing the damage it could do to your brain . . . if not your life.”

Slapping the steering wheel, she stared straight out the windshield, vying to control her anger. “Uncle Mitch tells me not to mess with his best cowboy. Most of the time, he’s a wise man, but sometimes his judgment goes askew and he makes mistakes.”

If Uncle Mitch had just told her dad not to ride, he’d have listened to him. She sniffed, as she fought the tears. “I’m not going to risk that this time. Somebody has to have some sense, so Nick, when this truck leaves this parking lot, it’s headed for home. . .your home.” She rubbed the heels of her palm in her eyes, thankful she’d only applied minimal makeup. Stealing a quick look in the rear view mirror, she sniffed again and then jabbed a finger at him. “And you’re going to tell me how to get there.”

Silence hung thick in the cab as a gust of wind shook the truck. She knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but she had many more bullets to fire if this cowboy wanted a fight. Rachel drew a breath. Tipping her head back and staring at the fabric covered ceiling, she let out an exasperated growl. “Why is it so difficult to--”