Gambling on a Dream

by Sara Walter Ellwood

  “You should’ve told me about her.” He clenched his fists and looked back at Maggie. “I would’ve been in her life.”

  The little girl sat up and scooted closer to her mother’s bare legs. Bitterness filled him, fueling his anger and resolve. He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t abandon his child.

  Maggie took a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. “Sure, I know you would’ve been around. Except for your little vacay. How was the state pen, by the way?”

  He let the remark slide and glanced at the toddler again. Beth had been right. He hadn’t wanted to believe her when she told him her sister had a three-year-old and claimed he was the father.

  A child he’d sired when he and Maggie had hooked up after his one and only time riding in the National Finals Rodeo.

  “You shouldn’t have her here.” He looked around at the other showgirls. Nothing about them was PG rated, from their dress, to their actions, to their conversations. “You shouldn’t have a kid here.”

  “I normally don’t. But Beth told me you were coming today.” She tossed her lighter on the dressing table behind her and turned. “I didn’t want you coming by my place. Alonzo doesn’t like that I have a kid with another guy. Meeting you wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  Her sister had told him Maggie had shacked up with a loser that hated her daughter. Acid boiled in his veins at the thought of another man mistreating his baby girl. Probably the reason she wore castoffs; he wouldn’t allow her to have new clothes. “You told Beth you didn’t want anyone in Colton to know you had a kid.”

  She took a drag on the cigarette. “They don’t have to know I’m her mother.”

  In other words, no one needed to know she had a baby with him.

  “Ten minutes till show time, ladies!” A tall man rushed toward them in the isle between dressing tables. His flashy blazer hung open to show off a smooth chest. Stopping, he looked Talon up and down with an appreciative smile. “Haven’t seen you around, handsome.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. Get lost.” Talon scowled, and the man’s eyes got big as he rushed past.

  She blew smoke in Talon’s face. “Are you done scaring my stage manager?” Maggie stepped away from the stool and tripped over the girl sitting on the floor. She caught the counter to keep from falling, but she undoubtedly twisted her ankle when her high heel caught on the girl’s right arm. “Damn it, Jessie, get out from under my feet.”

  The little girl let out a squawk of pain and big tears ran down her cheeks. Rubbing her arm where the heel had hit her, she backed away, fear and pain shining in her bright hazel eyes.

  Disgust and hatred rolled through him as he knelt in front of the little girl and noticed she had a black and blue bruise on her wrist as if someone had grabbed her too tightly. Swallowing the acidy desire to do the same damage to the woman who allowed such a thing to happen, he picked up the stuffed bear, which the girl had dropped when Maggie kicked into her. “Hey there, who’s this?”

  She sniffled and swallowed hard. “Bear-boo.”

  Talon smiled and glanced at the old thing. It was missing an eye and the left ear was torn, as if a dog had gotten a hold of it. “Well, hi, Bear-boo. Nice to meet you. You look like a very good friend.” He placed it into her arms. His heart squeezed as his hands ached to draw her to him and never let her go.

  She hugged the bear close and glanced up at her mother as if looking for reassurance.

  Appearing bored, Maggie put out her cigarette. “It’s okay. Talon’s a friend and is gonna take care of you while Mommy goes on her new job. Remember we talked about this?”

  Talon met Maggie’s blue eyes, hoping to see remorse. But only coldness and impatience radiated from her. Bitterness bubbled in his stomach, causing it to churn. He’d seen the same emotion in Jock Blackwell’s eyes too many times when his mother would take him to his place. Could she be this heartless? Didn’t she have any feelings for her child at all? How can she give her baby away while she goes off on some cruise ship with her latest fling?

  At least she contacted him and hadn't given his daughter away to strangers. Or had an abortion when she’d discovered she was knocked up. Beth had asked him if he doubted he was the girl’s father. His doubts vanished the moment he set eyes on her.

  What was he going to do with a three-year-old little girl? Hell, he wasn’t so sure he’d get out of whatever charges Hendricks dreamed up regarding the murders of those two kids back home. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of going back to prison or what would happen to his kid if he did.

  But he was damned sure not letting his little girl stay here for a moment longer.

  She sniffled again and smiled just a little. “Hi. I’m Jessie Mae.”

  He swallowed hard and his heart raced. “I’m your daddy, Jessie Mae.”

  Scooting closer on the worn, filthy carpeting, she reached out and touched his cheek. “Daddy?”

  His heart flipped over in his chest. “Yeah, sweet baby.” His voice all but cracked on the words. “You’re gonna live with me.”

  * * * *

  “Rachel?” Wyatt banged on the bedroom door and glanced at his mother. “Go find the key. I don’t like this.”

  His mother bit her lip and nodded. Fear blanched her face until the freckles over her cheeks and nose stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. She turned and headed down the hall to the kitchen.

  He tried the knob again, hoping it was stuck and not locked. Closing his eyes, he fisted his hand against the white raised panel of the door and prayed. Dear God in heaven, please let my baby sister be okay.

  He repeated the mantra as his mother ran toward him, holding out the skeleton key that opened all of the bedroom doors. “She seemed off this morning when I helped her with her shower, but she kept telling me she was okay.” Her hand shook as he took the key from her. “I wouldn’t have gone to the grocery store, but she asked if I could make lasagna tonight, and I had to get the ingredients.”

  His mother’s voice rose with growing hysteria as he shoved the key into Rachel’s door. The door swung open, revealing a dark, musty room. Icy dread blew through him like an arctic blizzard, freezing his guts.

  He shoved more into the room and zeroed in on the rumpled bed. Rachel lay face down with an open pill bottle by her outstretched hand. His mother’s muffled scream shot though him as adrenalin and fear chased the sound around his nervous system. He hurried to the bed and kicked an object he vaguely recognized as an empty brandy bottle. Leaning over Rachel’s still form, he touched her clammy skin over the pulse point at her throat. He closed his eyes as the erratic slow beats moved under his fingers. The pulse was too slow and weak to be effective.

  “Wyatt, is she…” his mother choked.

  “No, but she’s not okay. Call for an ambulance.” He lifted his sisters limp body off the bed, amazed at how light she was, and laid her on the floor on her back. As he knelt beside her, he noticed she wasn’t breathing, then checked the side of her throat again. The flutter of her pulse was gone. “Tell them I’m starting CPR.”

  His mother sobbed, but he ignored her, placing his hands over the center of Rachel’s chest, and began compressions, counting out loud to thirty. “C’mon, Ladybug, don’t you do this,” he said as he tilted her head to give her two breaths.

  As he put his hands on her chest again, his mother knelt beside Rachel across from him with her cell phone in hand. “No, she’s not breathing.” Her voice cracked and she sobbed again, but somehow managed to say, “My son’s doing CPR right now. Oh, God, please hurry.”

  She tossed the phone to the floor and took Rachel’s hand. “Please, please be okay.”

  Wyatt fell into a rhythm--thirty compressions, then two breaths. The memory of the night Dawn was shot stabbed at his conscience. After she’d been hit, and he’d killed the kid holding him, the thug who’d shot Dawn had run off. He couldn’t go after him and leave Dawn. Blood, so much blood, had soaked throu
gh her white tank top over her heart that he’d feared the worse. He’d pulled his phone, called for backup, and begun CPR. But he hadn’t been able to save their baby.

  “Damn it.” He wasn’t sure at whom or what the curse was directed--Rachel for trying to take her life, at the memories of Dawn, or the ambulance for taking so long to get there.

  An eternity passed before the blast of a siren sounded from the ambulance heading to them. He glanced up as his mother hurried to her feet to open the door.

  A few minutes later, his father rushed in with an automated external defibrillator.

  He set it by Rachel’s head and opened the red lid. The fire chief met Wyatt’s eyes, and the pain and fear for his daughter shined through, but his dad kept it together and cut off Rachel’s T-shirt and bra. Wyatt continued to press on her bare chest as his father connected the pads for the AED.

  Wyatt leaned back and took a ragged breath as two paramedics and two EMTs came in carrying equipment bags. A female EMT put the mask of an Ambu bag attached to an oxygen tank over Rachel’s face. One of the paramedics knelt beside him. “I’ll take over from here.”

  Wyatt nodded and moved back as the AED indicated a shock was needed. His father looked around and gruffly shouted, “Clear!” Dad pressed the flashing orange button, and Rachel’s lifeless body jerked as electricity entered her heart. His father leaned over and started compressing her chest, ignoring Wyatt and the paramedic on the other side of her. “C’mon, c’mon.”

  Wyatt stood, went to his mother, and wrapped her up in his arms. She buried her face in his chest and cried.

  An EMT knelt beside his father and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Chief? Let me take over.”

  When his father turned to look at the man, tears soaked his weathered cheeks. He nodded and leaned back on his haunches as the medics worked on Rachel. The second paramedic pulled out a bag of IV solution and a needle kit from an equipment bag, then began prepping Rachel’s arm.

  The tinny voice from the AED announced that no shock was advised, and the EMT administering breaths checked Rachel’s pulse at her neck. She sucked in a breath that made her shoulders raise and fall. “She has a pulse!”

  The paramedic working with the IV stood with the bag in hand and gently squeezed it. “Let’s roll.”

  Wyatt moved his mother and father out of the crowded bedroom as the medics got Rachel loaded onto a gurney and rushed her out of the house. Dad took Mom’s hand, pulling her to his side, and glanced at Wyatt. “We’ll ride along in the ambulance. Meet us at the hospital?”

  He numbly nodded. “Yeah.”

  Mom wiped tears from her face. “Call Audrey. She’ll want to know.”

  He nodded again, but wasn’t so sure having Audrey around was a good idea. Something pushed Rachel to attempt suicide. But he also knew Audrey loved Rachel as much as he did.

  An hour later, he stared out the window of the waiting room off the emergency department of the Forest County General Hospital. A train, heading east, rattled along beyond the parking lot. As the boxcars carrying cattle and other goods from the west rushed by, he let the hypnotic motion sooth his desire to flee to the freedom outside. He hated hospitals, and all he could think about was the last time he’d waited for a doctor to come and tell him if the woman he loved had lived or died. Only to discover she’d kept secrets and had risked their unborn baby’s life.

  He shook his head and turned away from the brightness of the day to the constraining dimness of the waiting room with its uncomfortable gray plastic chairs and fake wood tables scattered with last month’s tired magazines.

  His twin sister sat with their mother while their father paced the length of the waiting room, drawing curious stares from the three sets of parents waiting to have sick kids examined, and a cowboy with a dirty, blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand.

  “Mr. and Mrs. McPherson?” The masculine voice had Wyatt turning in its direction. A tall, lean man in blue scrubs and a white coat stood at the door of the waiting area.

  Dad stopped his incessant pacing, and Mom sat straight in her chair as she held onto Audrey’s hands.

  “What’s going on, Doc?” his father asked in a gruff voice.

  The doctor rubbed the dark stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his chin. “Come with me.”

  They followed him into a claustrophobic room with more gray plastic chairs and another fake wood table in the center. The doctor gestured toward the chairs. “Please, sit down.”

  Once they settled around the table--Wyatt and Audrey sitting on either side of their mother with their father stoically standing behind them--the doctor closed the door and sat across the table from them.

  Dad cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough. “How is she, Doc?”

  “I’m Doctor Dan Forsyth. Rachel is in critical condition and has been moved to the intensive care unit, but I feel confident she will pull through.” The doctor shook his head and glanced at his hands as he cleared his throat. “I knew Major McPherson from Afghanistan. She and I worked at the same hospital when she and Colonel Webster were shot. I know what PTSD can do to a person. But she’s a fighter, and she’ll get through this.”

  “You worked with our daughter?” Mom’s voice broke on the last word.

  “Yes, I was a government contractor.” Forsyth smiled. “I moved to Colton when my contract was up partly because of what Rachel said about the place. I couldn’t believe such a perfect little town could exist.”

  Wyatt wasn’t so sure he’d call Colton perfect, but it did have its own kind of charm. What surprised him was that Rachel spoke so highly of a place she’d avoided for years.

  Audrey glanced at him as if she was thinking the same thing. “When can we see her?”

  “She’s sleeping, but I think her parents can visit for a few moments tonight. Then it would be best if you all go home and wait until tomorrow. I suspect she’ll be awake by morning.”

  Wyatt had to get out of there. He stood and Audrey looked at him. “I need some air.” Before anyone could question him, he kissed his mother’s cheek and patted his father on the shoulder, then left the room as the first tears stung his eyes. Dear God, Ladybug, what made you think suicide was the answer?

  He had no idea where he was going when he opened up the throttle of his Harley, letting the cool wind whip through his hair and dry the tears on his cheeks, until he turned into the gravel drive of the C Bar M Ranch.

  * * * *

  Dawn pulled into her driveway and stared at the Harley sitting by the barn. But she didn’t see its owner until she caught movement by the door. Wyatt leaned against the wall and watched her park her truck. Her heart sped up as she got out of the rig.

  From the way his forehead pulled down over his eyes, and the deep frown tugged on his lips, something bad had happened. She stopped halfway to him and folded her arms across her chest.

  He stepped away from the barn, and before she knew what was happening, his arms were wrapped around her like his life depended on it. She snaked her arms around him and held on tight. His body pressed against hers, but there was nothing sexual in the embrace, despite her heart’s rapid beating and the tightness in her lower belly. Her nose filled with his wonderful scent of leather, fresh air, and his unique musk. His breathing was ragged, and from the way he trembled, she wondered if he was crying. But a man like Wyatt would never cry unless his world had imploded.

  Several moments passed before he lifted his head from her neck and met her gaze. The pain in his blue eyes broke her heart.

  He took a deep breath and looked toward the pasture next to the barn. “I’m sorry.”

  God, his voice was so deep.

  “I… uh…” As he shook his head, the chilly breeze lifted his hair, and the setting sun turned the auburn strands scarlet. Her hands tingled at the memory of the softness of his hair.

  “Wy, what’s going on?” She’d never seen him so rattled.

  As he closed his
eyes, he stepped out of her arms, but took her hand. “Rachel tried to commit suicide.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Dear God. Is she okay?”

  “She will be. She’s in the ICU and had her stomach pumped.” He wiped his free hand over his face. “She overdosed on her antidepressants and washed them down with a bottle of Ma’s Christmas brandy.”

  “Oh, God.” She squeezed his hand and those electric eyes met hers. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

  He nodded and let her lead him across the driveway and up the porch steps. Taco waddled and wiggled over when Dawn opened the door. Dawn ruffled the dog’s long ears and let her out. Taco recognized Wyatt and barked, but the need to do her business overrode any obligation she must have possessed to protect her mistress.

  Wyatt followed Dawn into the living room. He’d let go of her when she’d opened the door and jammed his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. He never looked more lost.

  She headed for the gun safe next to the kitchen, removed her service belt, and locked her Glock in the safe. Sensing him watching her, she took a deep breath and turned around. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He shook his head. “How about something stronger?”

  “Beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  She went into the kitchen and returned with two Coors Lights. Why had he come to her? He could have gone to Zack and Tracy’s or his cousin Dylan Quinn or his latest fling…The list went on. But instead, he was here, and she refused to ponder the reasons.

  As he took the bottle from her, he sat on the couch. She perched on the edge of the wing chair next to the safe with the cold bottle between her hands. He tipped his bottle back and gulped about half.

  “Do you want to talk?” Why else would he be here?

  He lowered the bottle and stared at it as he leaned over his long legs. “She wasn’t breathing, and her pulse stopped when Ma and I found her. I started CPR, and when Dad got there with the ambulance, he shocked her to restart her heart. We almost lost her.” His voice dipped so low it broke.