Shawnee jerked her head around, tilting back to look up at him. There was a fresh scrape underneath his chin, no doubt inflicted by Butthead. “Are you serious?”
“Do I ever joke around? Especially at a time like this?” His face was a complete blank as he looked past her to the vet. “Shawnee has to decide whether it’s worth the risk. But cost isn’t an issue.”
“He’s a five-hundred-dollar horse with major psychological issues.” She had to say the sensible thing, even if the implication made her stomach turn over. “You could spend thousands of dollars and he’ll die anyway.”
Cole just shrugged, so maddeningly noncommittal she wanted to stamp her foot. Give me something, dammit. An argument for or against. Where was all that fucking logic now, when her emotions were screaming at her to make the totally illogical choice?
Well, screw him, then. It was his dime. She turned back to the vet. “Do the surgery.”
“We’ll get him prepped right away. In the meantime, we have some paperwork to fill out.” He made a sympathetic face. “You’ll need to sign a release giving us permission to euthanize the animal if, in our opinion, there is no reasonable chance of recovery. But if it comes to that, I’ll talk it over with you before proceeding. And you can be with him at the end if you wish.”
She nodded mechanically. After all, there wasn’t really a choice. If it reached that point, when the last sliver of hope had packed its bags and left town, there was no reason to prolong the suffering.
She knew better than anyone, and not just when it came to horses.
She’d talked it through for hours with her grandfather when she was fourteen and so sick she couldn’t walk, or worse, ride. Rather than brushing her off with platitudes, he’d agreed. If this was all that was left of life, if there was nothing ahead but pain, the inability to do any of the things you loved, what was the point? Sitting side-by-side on her bed, they’d both put it in writing.
Five years later, she’d stood beside her grandmother and honored that agreement by not arguing when he’d declined treatment, even while her soul howled that there had to be a way.
There wasn’t. There was only needless suffering, lingering beyond all pretense of dignity. If she wouldn’t wish it on herself, or on her grandfather, she sure as hell didn’t wish it on a horse.
She shook loose of Cole’s grip and walked over to loop her arms around Butthead’s neck to whisper in his ear. “Listen, moron. If you show half as much try as you do when you’re fightin’ me out in the arena, you’ll come out of this just fine. But if you don’t…”
She pressed her cheek to his and smoothed her hands down his neck, trying to project comfort and reassurance into him. Be calm. Trust me. These people will take care of you. The horse tipped his head to whuffle green slime into her shirt. She gave him one last pat, then stepped back, turned to the vet, and nodded.
* * *
God, she hated hospital waiting rooms. It was almost worse here, where the normal, healthy scent of animals was tainted by antiseptics and unhealthy sweat, combining into a deep wrongness. Eau de fear and desperate prayers.
And Lord knew, she’d smelled it often enough.
Cole had dragged her out to his trailer and tried to convince her to stretch out on the bed instead of perching on this stiff vinyl sofa, but that felt too much like abandoning Butthead. She had accepted his offer of a clean, incredibly soft T-shirt. She wanted to bunch it up and press it to her nose to block out the hospital smell, but that would look like she was trying to take a snort of Cole, and he and Hank were wedged on either side of her—silently, staunchly supportive. Even if Hank was dozing with his head on her shoulder. The contact felt good. Grounding.
She wondered if she could get away with pretending to do the same with Cole. Then he yawned, stretched, and extended his arm along the back of the sofa, behind her shoulders. Katie stirred, then resettled herself, wedged into the space between Cole’s leg and Shawnee’s, the hated leash clipped on her collar. Even the Queen of Jacobs Rodeo had to follow hospital rules.
Cole grimaced apologetically. “Sorry. I gotta get a little more comfortable.”
“Damn. And here I thought you were makin’ your slick first date move.” Ah, shit. That almost sounded like flirting. Here. Of all places and times.
His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any moves. Slick or otherwise.”
He shouldn’t be so sure. The back of the sofa was so narrow she had no choice but to lean against the hard warmth of his arm, bared by another of those clingy T-shirts. She closed her eyes, just for a minute. It would be so easy…
“Shawnee.” The voice was deep and soft in her ear.
She opened her eyes. Then realized her face was buried in Cole’s armpit and jolted upright, wincing at the painfully bright light. “Wha…I’m awake. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, for the time being.” The vet smiled down at her, his eyes tired but his expression pleased. “Good news, actually. Your horse had an impaction in the long colon—it was a doozy, but about as uncomplicated as it gets in terms of colic surgery. We cleared the obstruction and flushed his system. He’s being transferred to a recovery stall now. We’ll keep him on IV fluids and monitor him closely as he comes out of the anesthesia, which will take an hour or so. And we’ll need to hold him here for at least five days.”
Five days? At least? By then they’d be five hundred miles down the road, in the far reaches of West Texas, gearing up for a four-day rodeo. And from there they were headed north into Utah. She racked her sludge-coated brain, trying to think of anyone she knew in this general area who might be willing to take care of Butthead until she could get back to pick him up. Then remembered that this was Butthead, who didn’t tolerate new places or people.
“I can’t leave him…” she began, shooting a helpless look at Cole. “You know how he is.”
The vet cleared his throat. “I have a suggestion, if you’re game. A friend of mine at Texas A&M is conducting a study aimed at developing a timed-release, antistress product for long-term use in performance horses. He’s looking for test subjects. From what you’ve said about your horse’s, um, disposition, I think he’d be a prime candidate. And if you agree, we’ll waive our boarding fees until he’s recovered sufficiently to travel.”
Shawnee stared at him, trying to work out exactly what he was proposing. “So they’re going to put him on…what? Horsey Prozac?”
“Not quite. It’s actually a milk protein—maltose and casein—that’s already on the market and proving both safe and effective. He’s trying to tweak the formula to make it even better for horses with higher levels of stress or anxiety.”
“And this is going to cost me how much?” Shawnee asked.
“Nothing. The university covers all costs including transportation to College Station, which they will arrange.”
It sounded good. Too good. There had to be a catch. But she couldn’t think…
Cole’s arm slid down and tightened around her shoulders, but his gaze was locked on the vet. “Get us the details. Shawnee can look it over and make a decision when she’s had a few hours of sleep.”
Hank strolled up, cradling three foam cups in his hands. Shawnee hadn’t even realized he was gone. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then held one out. He put the blessed coffee cup in it and she took a careful sip. Ah. Now that hit the spot.
“Hot and sweet.” Hank winked at her. “Just like you.”
She curled her lip at him, then gave in and smiled as he handed Cole the second cup. “You know, sometimes I get to thinkin’ you might actually be a decent guy.”
“I can fake it now and then.”
“You’re not faking it, Hank.” Impulsively, she reached out and grabbed his hand. “This is the real you, under all the cocky bullshit. You should let it show more often.”
He hunched his shoulders, his cheeks going red as he loo
ked away. “Whatever.”
The moment got awkward in a hurry. Shawnee broke it short, turning her attention back to the vet. “Can I be with my horse when he comes out of the anesthesia? If he starts to freak out, it might help if I’m there.”
“Sure. As long as you understand that we can’t allow you to put yourself in danger.”
She stayed until Butthead was safely, if unsteadily, on his feet in the padded recovery stall. And then she had to leave. Had to. It was already almost eight o’clock. Cole’s schedule was shot to hell. But she remained rooted to the spot, one hand on Butthead’s neck where she could feel his pulse tapping gently against her fingers.
Alive. Still alive.
“We’ll give him a couple more hours, then move him to a regular stall,” the infernally cheerful tech said. “We have visiting hours until six this evening if you want to come back later.”
Shawnee shook her head. “We’ve got a rodeo performance tonight. I’ll have to wait until morning.”
“Oh.” The tech frowned, then brightened immediately. “We’ve got your cell number. I can text you photos, so you can see how he’s doing.”
Shawnee gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. That would be awesome.”
But she still couldn’t let go. Couldn’t break that fragile connection that assured her his heart was still beating. Finally, the tech came over to stand in front of Butthead, gently placing a hand on his forehead.
“We’ll be fine, won’t we, handsome?” she cooed. “I’ll be right here if you need any ol’ thing.”
His ears perked slightly at the tech’s voice. She slid her hand down and let him sniff her fingers. He took his time debating whether he liked the smell of her, then sighed and lowered his nose into her palm as if he was too exhausted to hold his own head up.
“There, you see?” she said, stroking his muzzle with her thumb and reaching out with her other hand to squeeze Shawnee’s arm. “You can trust us; we’ll be right here when you get back.”
Yeah. Where had she heard that before? She shook free of the memory that threatened to smother her like a black fog and checked the time on her phone. Shit. It was almost eight thirty. They should’ve been halfway done running stock and they still had a forty-five-minute drive to get back. Cole must be going insane.
She had to drag herself away, or force him to do it. She gave Butthead one last stroke. “You behave now, you hear?”
As she staggered outside, she gulped in fresh air, trying to scrub the hospital scent from her sinuses. Hank and Cole were leaning against the shady side of Cole’s trailer, sipping coffee, paper plates and crumpled napkins stacked on the fender between them. Katie was licking pancake syrup from a plate of her own. They were both showered and shaved, Hank in borrowed surgical scrubs, Cole in his working uniform of long-sleeved shirt and cowboy hat. The benefit of hauling your house everywhere you went.
The only sign of impatience was the rapid tap, tap, tap of Cole’s fingers on the fender. It stopped as soon as he caught sight of her. “Everything okay?”
“So far.” She waved her phone. “They’re going to keep me updated. We can go now.”
Cole didn’t bolt for the pickup, but it was obvious he wanted to. He did pause long enough to ask, “Do you want something to eat? We saved some scrambled eggs and sausage—I can heat it up.”
Shawnee’s stomach turned over at the thought of piling food on top of the stress of the night. “I’ll grab a bite later.”
She climbed into the passenger’s seat, tipped the seat back, and closed her eyes, her hands clenching around her phone as they turned out onto the highway. No complications. No signs of infection. Excellent prognosis for full recovery. She repeated the vet’s words like a mantra, but still the tension spiraled higher with every mile of separation, her mind conjuring images of returning to find an empty stall, nothing but sad, sympathetic faces.
Not the same. Not the same.
But last time they’d told her to go home, get some sleep, they’d been confident her grandfather would live through the night. He’d squeezed her hand, whispered that he’d see her in the morning. The only time she could recall that he’d failed to keep his word.
She shouldn’t have left.
She checked her silent phone to be sure the battery hadn’t gone dead. Too soon. The tech wouldn’t text her for at least a few hours. Unless something went wrong…
No. She could not let herself imagine the worst. The minute they pulled into the rodeo grounds, they’d all have to hit the ground running. She would focus on that—every nitpicking step of Cole’s routine—to carry her through this day.
But when they arrived, Tyrell and Mariah were just riding out of the arena aboard Hammer and Salty. Cruz and Analise strolled out behind them, closing the gate.
Cole stopped the pickup beside the stock pens and Shawnee rolled down her window. “What’s up?”
“Just finished running the stock.” The nearest Les flashed him a proud grin as the other latched a gate behind a pair of bulls. “You didn’t think we’d been doing this long enough to manage without you?”
Analise marched over and did jazz hands with her leather gloves. “Cruz showed me how to run the gates. I want to do it again tomorrow. Except for the bulls. They reek.”
“Weenie,” Hank said.
Analise flipped him off. Cole actually laughed.
And inside Shawnee, the tiny thread she’d been clinging to snapped. Now what was she supposed to do? Just sit here and wait? Jump in her pickup and go straight back? And do what? Get in the way?
Distantly, she heard Cole saying something about slowing down. But that was stupid. She hadn’t even moved. And then she realized…
Aw hell. She was hyperventilating.
Black spots pocked her vision, slowly expanding, eating the light and the air. Not good. It had been years since she’d had a full-on anxiety attack. These days she generally settled for an occasional crushing sense of dread—but the last few hours had punched every emotional button she owned. Her chest began to ache. She closed her eyes. Big mistake. The present faded out and she was sitting in an overheated, stuffy room, her grandfather’s bony hand in hers. So frail. So wasted.
Such a fucking waste.
And then it was her hand being squeezed, and for a horrible instant it was her in the bed. Her, sliding down…down…
Cole squeezed harder, until her knuckles cracked and the pain yanked her back to the present. Not much of an improvement as far as she was concerned. Past, present, future…it all bore down on her as her mind and body turned traitor, her heart revving toward the red line—
“Sounds like it was a hell of night.”
Her eyes popped open at the sound of Ace’s voice. He’d climbed down out of the second truck, his jeans stuffed sloppily into the tops of his boots and his shirt unbuttoned, showing a thatch of graying chest hair. Just crawling out of bed, the only one of the crew who hadn’t pitched in.
He ran a careless glance around the group. “Looks like I missed all the action.”
Again.
The thought was a bucket of ice in Shawnee’s face, jerking her upright. He couldn’t see her fall apart. That bastard would not be able to sneer that she was just like her mother, and was it any wonder he’d bailed out on the whole batshit crazy of bunch of them? Ace would have to manufacture his own excuses for being a complete loss as a father. She wouldn’t hand him anything.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one was expecting you to show up.”
She kicked open the pickup door and slid out. Her knees buckled, and she had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Hank was out of the backseat and behind her in a flash, his hands bracing her so she didn’t fall backward. She gave herself a moment to get her legs under her.
And then—God knows how—she walked away. Her numb fingers fumbled with the door to her trailer. An a
rm reached around her, a hand flipping the latch and steadying her as it opened the door. She stumbled up the steps and bolted for the bathroom. The toilet lid magically popped opened and those same hands scraped her hair back and held it while she retched up everything she’d eaten in the last week, and then some.
When she couldn’t dry heave anymore, Cole peeled her off the toilet and propped her up, sitting with her back against the shower door. “Are you done?”
“I dunno. There might be a chunk of my colon I haven’t hacked up yet.”
Her breathing was back to normal, at least. Hard to vomit and hyperventilate simultaneously. Her heart was still hammering, though, and the floor shimmied and whirled as if she was strapped into a fighter jet that had gone into a flat spin. Water splashed in the sink and something damp was pressed to her forehead.
“Do you have a thing about slapping girls in the face with wet washcloths?” she asked.
“Nope. You’re a special case.”
She snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Takes one to know one.” He shoved a glass into her limp hand and closed her fingers around it. “Where are your meds?”
How did he…oh, right. Her big mouth, running off again. “Bottom shelf, cabinet above the sink.”
Her hand trembled so violently, she had to wrap all ten fingers around the glass to guide it to her lips. She filled her mouth, sloshed it around, then leaned sideways to spit it into the toilet. Nice thing about trailer bathrooms, everything was close by. She rinsed and spit again, getting rid of the worst of the grossness, then slowly keeled over onto the floor, the rest of the water sloshing into a pool around her. She heard Cole’s voice, a quiet rumble like he was talking on the phone. Then the bathroom door opened again.
“Geezus. I leave you alone for ten seconds…” Cole hitched his hands under her armpits again and hauled her into a seated position between his feet, his knees bracketing her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes tight, but it didn’t help with the spinning. Pills rattled in a bottle, the faucet ran again, then the glass was back in her hand. “Open wide.”
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