After a good hard hug, he had asked about Ben’s condition.
“I don’t know,” she said bitterly, mopping her face with the tissues so thoughtfully provided by the staff. “No one will tell me. No one comes out from those doors. I just hear messages over the loudspeaker, and people walking by, really fast.”
“Well, honey, no news is good news, I reckon,” he had soothed her. “So he’s still in surgery?”
“Yes. Cutting away.” A half-sob broke into her words before she could continue. “And—and—
t-t-tying things off…”
“Ahuh. Seems we’ll just have t’ wait some more, and then we can decide what t’ do from there.”
Quietly, then, he had recounted all that he had accomplished within the last few hours since the monstrous, inexplicable attack.
Although Mrs. Wyeth had heard all the commotion outside, and the gunshots, which had nearly scared the liver out of her, she had sensibly taken charge of Sophie and the pup. It was all a matter of getting them up to the child’s room with some excuse about needing a picture drawn and colored for Daddy, right now. Shocked by the news of what had happened, she assured Tom that, of course, she would be happy to watch over Sophie for however long was needed. Hadn’t she done it for a number of years?
The most important task discharged, Tom had asked her to find Caroline’s purse with all her valuables—mainly a cell phone, to keep in touch, since Lord only knew what had happened to the one Ben wore strapped to his belt—and to pack a bag with some clothes.
From there, he had gone into the corporate office, pulled some legal papers from an important document file, and stuffed them into a folder to take along. Just in case.
With everything packed away onto the ranch truck seat beside him, he had driven to the two-story adobe building that housed the Marigold Police Department.
The initial few words of his report about the assault at Ten Buck actually propelled Sheriff Chet Waring upright behind his desk. “The hell you say!”
“He’s at the hospital now, which is where I’m headin’ as soon as I’ve finished.”
“All right.” Motioning to a empty chair, Waring pulled forward a pad of paper and began making notes. “At the ranch. How long ago? D’ you know who done it? How bad hurt is the boy?”
Tom declined the offer to sit only because he was in a hurry. Passing on what meager information he could, he also included his cell phone number, where he could be reached, and started for the door.
“I’ll take a couple men and get out to the ranch, see what we can find,” promised the sheriff. “You think of any suspects, you let me know. And I’ll be checkin’ with the docs to see if—I mean, how soon I can talk to Ben. Helluva note,” he added gloomily. “One of the town’s upstandin’ citizens, gunned down in his own front yard.”
“Yeah.” Tom’s mood wasn’t gloomy. It was blistering, boiling mad, a layer of hot lava beneath what seemed to be a calm, cool surface and ready to erupt. He must remain calm and cool. There was still Caroline to consider, and what she was going through. “Thanks, Chet. I’ll let you know anything I can find out about Ben’s condition.”
And after that, with all hands on deck, had come the waiting time.
The bullet had nicked some vital places, to end up somewhere deep inside Ben’s chest. He was suffering almost as much from blood loss as from the wound itself; and, after many hours of surgery, it was still too early to tell just how long his recuperation period might be.
Or if he’d live long enough to have one.
For two days, Caroline had not left his side, other than to change into the clean clothing Mrs. Wyeth had sent and periodically refresh herself. The patient had had moments of drifting into semi-consciousness, which pleased his doctors, but none of actual lucidity. And the moments had been too few and too far apart for Caroline’s dwindling hopes.
“C’mon,” Tom said now, into the quiet room. Rising, he stretched weary muscles wide and then reached down a hand. “Let’s get outa here for a bit. We’ll go to the cafeteria, get some food and a change of scenery. It won’t do no good for you t’ come down sick, too.”
“I’m fine,” Caroline protested. “And I can’t leave, Tom. What if he wakes up, and I’m—not here—?” Her voice quavered.
“Darlin’, if’n he wakes up long enough t’ wanna talk t’ you, one of the nurses will let us know. C’mon. I ain’t takin’ no for answer.”
The cafeteria looked out over a small lake, liberally supplied with ducks, other water fowl, and a multitude of bushes. It was a peaceful scene, one conducive to restoring calm and soothing shattered nerves, and she was surprised by a lift in spirits as they took seats near the large window.
“You were right, Tom,” she conceded. “I’ll never question your judgment again.”
“Oh, I’m just sparked fulla good ideas,” he chuckled. “Here, you want some butter for that bread?”
For a few minutes, they simply enjoyed their meal—fairly tasty as far as hospital fare—in silence, while muted conversations and the rattling of dishes went on around them. Some hot soup, in the cool air-conditioned room, and a flaky croissant were enough to paint a little color back into Caroline’s pallid cheeks.
“What has Sophie been told about—everything—?” she asked, sipping from her cup of tea.
“Well, she’s been askin’ about you and Ben right along, as you might figure. Ain’t no flies on that child. Mrs. Wyeth said there’s been an accident, and her daddy was hurt, and her mommy was with him. And that Sophie herself could come and visit just as soon as Ben was awake.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, blue-ringed with exhaustion and worry. “The sweetheart. I’m sorry I had to leave as I did, without any sort of explanation, but—”
“Ain’t no point chastisin’ yourself, Carrie. It couldn’t be helped. We all knew Ben was our first priority. And I know,” he surveyed her thoughtfully, over the rim of his own cup, “what he’s come t’ mean to you.”
She looked down at her plate, then up again to meet his uncritical, understanding gaze, with the tears now gathering clear as glass. “That annoying, exasperating, pain-in-the-rear man…does it show so much?”
“O’ course it does. And it should.”
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered then, “I’m so scared. We had—we had words—before this last traveling binge of his, and I—and we—it wasn’t—”
“And you’re feelin’ guilty,” said Tom shrewdly, “in case he never comes to, and you won’t be able t’ tell him so.”
Abjectly Caroline nodded.
He reached across the small table to take her hand in his, and squeeze. He was a great hand-holder, was this Tom Sinclair, and she treasured every moment in his company.
“Reckon we’ll just haveta leave that problem t’ the man upstairs. You can’t take the whole world on your shoulders, Carrie. You gotta give a little, and let people share.”
“Oh, Tom. You’re so good to me.”
“Ain’t nobody deserves it more, honey.” His lopsided grin twisted her heart. “Okay. Enough philosophisin’. Wanna take a walk around that there lake, get some fresh air, b’fore we go back t’ Ben-sittin’? And maybe you can give Sophie a buzz. Be good for you two t’ talk a bit.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The charge nurse, a very capable, very efficient, very compassionate woman named Mary, caught them near the station as they returned to the fourth floor.
“I was just about to call you,” she explained. “Mr. Taggart woke a little while ago, and Sheriff Waring is with him now.”
“What, is the guy hauntin’ the halls, or what?” Tom wanted to know, only half-humorously.
“Oh, he showed up, hoping to be able to talk to the patient. Timing is everything, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. Well, Carrie, let’s go see what’s goin’ on.”
The sheriff, a member of the turnbuckle club in his brown uniform, was standing close to the bed so he could hear every strained whisper
in response to his questions. “Ahuh. Former employee, you said?” he continued, glancing sideways with a nod as the newcomers made their entrance.
“Yeah,” Ben managed in a husky, hesitant tone entirely unlike his usual bass voice. “Recognized…recognized…truck…”
“All right, then. We’ll have every man jack of the force workin’ on this, and we’ll find him. Sorry to be botherin’ you, Ben, but I needed to get started as soon as I could.”
The faint movement of his tubed and bandaged hand gave permission at the same time it absolved blame.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll see you later, then. Tom. Ma’am.” The sheriff offered a tilt of the hat in greeting to the man he knew and the lady he didn’t but whose identity he could guess. The door softly whooshed open and shut as he made his departure.
“Well, you damned ole hawse thief.” Grinning widely, Tom approached the bed, which had been elevated just a bit to accommodate conversation. “’Bout time you finally wake up. You been lollygaggin’ around too long already.”
The patient’s cloudy gaze raised to his visitor, then shifted to follow Carrie. She was at the castered tray table, collecting a glass of ice water, inserting a straw. Moving nearer, she leaned forward, trembling in every muscle, to let Ben allow a few cooling sips down his parched throat.
“Good…” A long sigh, a rumbling breath. “Carrie…don’t—don’t go…”
Very gently she lay the back of her hand against his bewhiskered cheek. “I won’t go, Ben. I’m here. I’ll be right here.”
His eyes drifted closed, then opened halfway. “Tired. So—damned—tired…”
“It’s to be expected. You’ve been through an awful—” Involuntarily she shuddered, “—ordeal.”
“Huh. Maybe—almost died…” A glint of something like the hale and hearty Ben would have shown sparked suddenly, despite the grogginess. “Wouldja—miss me…?”
“Hey, man, we’d all miss you,” cut in Tom, to prevent Caroline being forced to answer. “I’d have to change my will.”
With a surprising bit of strength, he pushed himself an inch or so higher on the pillows. “Yeah? Leave stuff—to Carrie, I—reckon…Huh. Niece—in law…”
Caroline, frowning, sent a worried glance across the bedside to the cowboy standing opposite. Had Ben suddenly gone delirious? Was he hallucinating? Should she ring for the nurse?
“Naw, not that a’tall,” said Tom as if he had read her mind. “He ain’t goin’ crazy, darlin’. Reckon he’s just finally about t’ let down his hair.”
“Tom.” There was that glint again. Encouraging. “Ain’t no—hired hand. Partner. Uncle.”
With a gasp, she took a hard step backward. “Your what?”
“The boy is such an ass, sometimes I’m plumb sorry t’ admit I’m related to him.” Tom, sounding sheepish, hung his head. “It’s true, I’m his uncle. His mama was my sister.”
Fortunately the chair was nearby. Because Caroline’s legs would no longer support her, and, flabbergasted, she needed to collapse onto the upholstered seat. “His uncle. His uncle.”
Still standing beside the bed, in that hipshot way he had, Tom quirked a brow. “Gonna tell her the rest now, son?”
“Rest?” Caroline, still taking in this announcement, and all the ramifications involved, seemed dazed. “There’s more?”
“—Later—” croaked Ben, in a bid for sympathy.
“Ahuh. How much later?”
“Dunno. Soon.”
“Promise?”
“May be a—dyin’ man here.”
“Bull pizzle. You gotta lot of years left on this earth. All the more reason t’ spit it out now.”
“Water…” Ben pleaded.
Still shaking her head with disbelief, Caroline rose to offer the drinking cup to him for another few sips.
By now, giving up on his mission for the time being, Tom had moved away to hook a chair forward and sink down into it. “So, you think you know who pulled a gun on you, boy?”
“You’ve—been shot. Y’ know—who did it?”
“Every lambastin’ bullet that ever hit my moldy ole carcass, hell, yes.”
“Me, too. Riley. Riley—Lundigan…”
Another gasp from Caroline coincided with a snort from Tom, with both protesting something about “Because of the dog?”
“Reckon.”
He looked suddenly exhausted, with every bit of animation gone, his blue gaze closed down against the light, and his breathing labored.
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Tom in disgust. “Well, we’ve got Waring on his trail. Hard t’ tell how far he might’ve gotten, but with every law officer in the state beatin’ the bushes to find him, Lundigan can’t go far enough.”
“—Carrie…”
Immediately she was but inches away, holding the hand not weighed down by medical paraphernalia tight to her breast. “Yes, Ben. What do you need? What I can get for you?”
One of his sassy grins struggled to the surface, and his eyes opened to sweep her in. “Kiss. Need—a kiss.”
“Ben.”
“Well, looks like this is my cue t’ take off.” Tom was smiling in great relief. “Reckon even a slowpoke like me can tell when I ain’t wanted around no more. O’ course, my feelin’s are mighty hurt, but—”
“Bull pizzle,” said his nephew.
The smile broadened. “Suit yourself. I’ll come back later and take you out for supper, Carrie. You been spendin’ far too much time with this pain in the butt.” Touching one finger to his hat, Tom discreetly disappeared.
“Still waitin’—for that kiss…” whispered Ben, giving Caroline his most appealing glance.
Careful not to touch any part of him that was hooked up, beeping, or bandaged, she complied. But with a light press of her lips to his cheek only. He wasn’t about to get the benefit from one of their full-blown, mouthwatering kisses. She wasn’t sure what he’d do with it.
“D’zhoo know the docs—shocked me twice—?”
“Oh, my God,” Caroline breathed in horror, straightening to stare at him. “Ben, are you serious? Your heart actually stopped?”
“Ahuh. And here you—you thought I didn’t have one…”
Not strictly true. She knew he had a heart. She’d just assumed it to be encased in stone.
“Yeah, hell—burned off—my chest hair.”
At that she scoffed. “I don’t believe it. There isn’t a single mark anywhere.” On that beautiful, sculpted torso that she’d thought never to lie upon again.
“Under—under wraps. Heard ’em—talkin’…” He paused, coughed a little, and looked up at her bleary-eyed. “Listen. Gotta tell you—gotta tell you…”
“Yes, Ben?”
“Gotta…” Once more, his eyelids closed, and his voice trailed off. Exhausted by so much effort, he was sound asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Caroline’s consultation with her husband’s physician, Dr. Leo Scintilla, took place in a small antechamber constructed for just that purpose, adjacent to the nurses’ station. His prognosis was guardedly optimistic.
“It seems Mr. Taggart was turning slightly sidewise as the bullet hit. Instead of ramming into his heart, straight-on, as it was aimed to do, it took a somewhat altered path.”
The image, as she saw it, seemed very real. She shivered.
“Yes, he’s a lucky man.” The doctor was still wearing scrubs and clogs from some earlier surgery and appeared tired. Not surprising, with so many hours on his feet. He paused to sip from a lukewarm cup of beverage and then pat at his damp mustache. “We got the bullet out, got all the nicks and tears sutured and repaired, and sewed him up.”
“He—he said his heart stopped,” Caroline ventured tremulously. Another vivid image.
“That it did. He knows we had to use the paddles? Well, by gum.”
“Yes, apparently he heard someone telling someone else.”
The gray-haired doctor shook his head. “I can say this now, it was touch and go f
or a while. We weren’t sure—well, anyway, I’ve been in to see him every day since surgery, and everything looks good. The graze across his upper arm is minor, of course, compared to the fact that I was having to dig around in his chest.”
“And you think he’ll be all right?”
“I think we’ll do fine with recovery as long as we can have him chained to a hospital bed,” Dr. Scintilla said frankly. “Once he’s well enough to go home, you may have trouble keeping him confined long enough to heal.”
Caroline sighed. “I confess, that will be a problem. My husband is quite—obstinate.”
“Ahuh. Bull-headed, you mean.” He rose and eased the kinks from his back and shoulders. “Well, I think that’s it for now. Please let me know if you have questions of any kind. But, for now, he’s got a few weeks of recuperation ahead, and you may remind him to take it easy.”
She reached out to shake his free hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much. You saved his life, and I—I can’t tell you—”
He smiled down at her. “It’s okay, Mrs. Taggart. That’s my job.”
The patient was more awake, more animated, more alert, when she returned to his room in the unit. It was late afternoon, and Caroline had grabbed the opportunity to take a nap in the lounge specifically set up for families, and to visit the cafeteria for more soup and a glass of iced tea.
“You look better,” he greeted her.
“Thank you. I feel better. You look better, too.”
“Ah. All manly and rugged, huh? Bet you can’t keep your hands off me.”
The first honest amusement she had known in several days bubbled up. It felt wonderfully refreshing, like the bubbles from a champagne bottle. “Same old Ben.”
“What, did you expect me to undergo some sort of conversion or something?” He eyed her. “Sit down here, will you, and talk with me?” And, as she willingly complied, “Carrie, can we please not fight any more? It puts me all outa kilter.”
Surprised that he was so willing to take the bull by the horns, she agreed. “I think we’re still trying to find our way in this marriage, Ben. It isn’t—quite—what either of us expected, and maybe—well, maybe both of us need to grow up a little. But—no, I don’t like fighting, either.”
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