Texas Roses (The Devil's Horn Ranch Series)

by Samantha Christy

  “Say no more. I’ll put Reuben in his stall, and we’ll take Quinn’s truck. Mine’s back at the lodge.”

  “You guys really are one big family, aren’t you?” I mutter.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. I’ll wait by the truck.”

  A few minutes later, we’re driving into town. He stops at a traffic light and turns my way. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Okay,” I say, bracing myself for some deep, prying inquisition.

  “Do you think we should paint the guest rooms at the lodge blue? Devyn says they’re too plain the way they are.”

  “That’s your question?”

  “What did you think I was going to ask?”

  I shake my head. “I think Devyn’s right. The rooms are great, but a touch of color wouldn’t be bad. You know what I did at my house—well, my dad’s house? I painted just one wall of my bedroom, where the bed sits. It looks really good. Maybe you could do the same.”

  “Good idea. And a lot less work. I’ll discuss it with Devyn.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s with Quinn’s family? We ran into his mom earlier. They don’t even get along. He says the whole town hates them.”

  “Nobody’s told you?”

  “Told me what? I gather they wanted this ranch or something, and it turned into some kind of family feud.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. It’s all a big shit storm really, but the gist of it is that Quinn’s uncle, Jon, was trying to conceal the fact that Joel—Quinn’s grandfather—ordered Maddox’s grandmother to be killed, and in the process of the cover-up, Jon kidnapped Andie.”

  My jaw goes slack. “Oh my god.”

  “Andie was okay. Yeah, she was terrified, but luckily, they found her in less than a day. But Jon is in jail, Joel had a heart attack and died, and Karen—well, I don’t really know what she does now other than try to coax Quinn into rejoining their family.”

  “But he wants nothing to do with them.”

  “We’ve been best friends since I came down here almost ten years ago. He didn’t like them much then and pretty much despises them now.”

  “So he’s a good guy?”

  He flashes me a look. “Amber, Quinn isn’t the kind of guy who wants to be someone’s boyfriend or husband. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

  “I’m leaving in a week, Aaron. Believe me, nobody’s getting any ideas.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  I look out the window. “I don’t get hurt.”

  He pulls into the parking lot of the grocery store. “I’m calling bullshit. Everyone has something that can hurt them.”

  “Not me.”

  “Okay, fine, you don’t get hurt. Someday, you’ll have to tell me how you manage that.”

  “I promise it’s nothing you want to know.” I open the door and get out, taking my heart of stone with me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Quinn

  I climb the stairs to the apartments. Her phone rings for the third time since I retrieved it. Tag is trying to call her again. There’s a crash from behind Amber’s door. “Amber!”

  “Come in!”

  Inside, I find her on the floor next to an overturned chair.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I misjudged the chair.” She throws down her crutches. “I can’t wait to get rid of these things. Andie said she’d bring me a walking boot tomorrow.”

  “Let me help you to the couch.” She takes my hand and I pull her up, then sweep her into my arms and cross the room and get her situated. I put a pillow under her leg. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “A bottle of water would be great.”

  I pull her phone from my pocket. “Your friend Tag called three times in the last twenty minutes. Must be important.”

  She holds up her phone. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll get your water.”

  I walk to the kitchen to give her space, but the apartment is small and I can still hear every word.

  “What’s up?” she asks. Her voice becomes strained. “Oh, no.”

  I get the bottle of water and keep my distance.

  Her voice cracks. “Did they say how long? I don’t want to fly, Tag. But I want to be there.”

  Seems like shit just got real. I walk in the room, and her face is wet with tears.

  She looks up. “It’s my dad. They tried to call me, but Tag is the other emergency contact. They want me there. They don’t think he has long to live.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  She talks back into the phone. “It’s Quinn.” She says it like he already knows about me. “No, you’re not flying down here to babysit me on a flight home. I know you have a big meeting in the morning. I’ll rent a car. Besides, it’s only a sprain. I’ll load up on Advil.”

  I wish I could hear the other end of the conversation, but I can’t.

  “They think I need to be there tomorrow? How can it happen so quickly?”

  I’m not sure what’s going on. Obviously, her father is critically ill. And although she’s clearly upset, she’s not hysterical. It’s almost like she knew this was coming. Or maybe she isn’t very close to her father.

  I sit on the arm of the couch. “I’ll fly with you.”

  “What? No. I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.”

  “Still. It’s too much.” She listens to something Tag says. “I can’t.” More listening. “Because it’s weird.”

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m not sure what the hell you’re saying, but since I’m part of the reason you don’t want to fly, it’s only fair I accompany you. It’s really no big deal, Amber. I’m offering. You need to get home. It’s simple.”

  She listens to Tag and then rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me I have to let you bring me.”

  I raise my brows. “I didn’t think any man could tell you what to do.”

  “Shut up.” She talks to Tag. “I’ll text you with our flight info. And thanks for going to see him tonight. I’m glad you’ll be with him if I can’t get there in time. See you tomorrow.”

  She puts the phone down and wipes her face.

  “Has he been sick for a while?” I ask.

  She taps around on her phone as she speaks. “He has advanced early-onset Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer’s patients are prone to getting viruses and bacterial infections. He had a bad respiratory virus a few years ago, and his lungs haven’t been the same since. Now they say he’s got pneumonia. He’s on oxygen to help him breathe, but he’s getting worse.”

  “Sounds like you need to get there fast.”

  She closes her eyes and puts down the phone. “The only tickets left are first class. I can’t afford one ticket, let alone two.”

  “Let me deal with the tickets.”

  “You have contacts because you’re a pilot?”

  I hand her the water and get up to leave. “Something like that. Leave it to me. I’ll text you with the details shortly. Just hang tight and pack your bag.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know which I’m more scared of: getting on a plane or not being there when he dies.”

  “I’ll get you through it.”

  She nods, and I wonder if she thinks I meant get her through the flight or through her father’s death. We’ve only known each other a week; I don’t dare to think I could get her through anything. Why, then, do I have this nagging urge to do exactly that?

  As soon as I’m in my own apartment, I get online and buy two first-class tickets. Then I text her to let her know we’re all set.

  Then I spend a sleepless night worried about the woman next door. About her dad. About how she’ll handle the flight.

  About her leaving and never coming back.

  “Two mimosas, please,” I say to the waitres
s at the airport bar.

  Amber sees airplanes out the window. “You don’t think I can do this without alcohol?”

  “Do you?”

  “Honestly? I’ve never wanted to run away from anything so much in my life. If I was going on vacation, I’d cancel. If this trip were to recruit a new client, I’d postpone it until I could drive. But this is my dad. If I don’t get on this plane, I might hate myself for it.”

  Our drinks get put on the bar. I tap my glass to hers. “To your dad.”

  She gulps down half her glass. “I wish you could have known him. He’s a good man and an incredible surgeon. Most surgeons don’t even interact with their patients, did you know that? They let the nurses and residents handle the prep work and the patient communication. Not Benjamin Black. Not only did he insist on talking to every patient before and after surgery, he would also follow up himself and even keep in touch with them. Doctor B, they’d call him. And though our last name is Black, he insisted the B stood for his first name. He hated formalities.”

  “He sounds amazing.”

  “He was. I mean, he is. I used to be jealous of the hospital and his patients. He spent a lot more time with them than he did with me. I knew my nannies better than I did my own father. And the sad part is, I didn’t really start to appreciate him until my early twenties, right before he got sick.”

  “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through when he got his diagnosis. How’s your mom handling it?”

  She narrows her eyes. “You don’t know about my mom?”

  “No.”

  “She died when I was two. Cancer. I don’t even remember her.”

  “Oh, shit. I get it now.”

  “What do you get exactly?”

  “Your abandonment issues. First you were given up for adoption, then your mom dies. That’s rough.”

  She motions for another drink. “Ya think?”

  “I never knew my dad. He was basically a sperm donor.”

  “Your mom went to a sperm bank?”

  I laugh. “If only. No, my illustrious mother found some rando who resembled Gavin McBride and paid him to knock her up. Then she tried to pass me off as Gavin’s kid. They were married at the time, but he had filed for divorce and it was her last-ditch effort to hang on to him.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “Yeah.” I raise my glass. “So, cheers.”

  “And you never wanted to meet him?”

  “Meet the gigolo who fucked my mom for money? I’d rather crawl through a field of cow shit.”

  “I guess we have one thing in common, then. Neither of us knows our biological father.”

  “I’d say we have more than one thing in common.” I give her a heated stare.

  She raises her glass. “To shit-for-brains fathers and reeeeeeally good sex.”

  I laugh. The alcohol is obviously getting to her. “Two things that should never be toasted together, but okay.” I drink. “You think I’m that good, huh?”

  “I think I’m that good, cowboy.”

  Our flight gets called, and Amber quickly orders another drink. She downs it in ten seconds flat, then stands. I steady her with my arm. “Easy. You just got the boot. You don’t want to fall.”

  I pull my carry-on with my left hand, keeping my right hand ready to help her if she needs it.

  We’re the first ones boarded. “Pick your seat—aisle or window?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Unless you want mimosas splattered all over your lap, you better let me sit in the aisle. If I never have to look out another window from the sky again, it’ll be too soon.”

  I slide into my seat and close the window shade.

  She settles into hers. “Wow, these are huge. Please be sure to thank whoever it was that got us these seats. I guess being a pilot has its benefits.”

  “You’ve never flown first class before? Hard to believe knowing your dad’s a heart surgeon.”

  “He’s always worked for public hospitals. Even gave away his time on pro-bono cases fixing holes in hearts of children from low-income families. It’s a condition called VSD. Easily treatable, but expensive if you don’t have insurance.” She elbows me. “Sorry to disappoint you if the only reason you’re doing this is because you thought I was some trust fund kid.”

  I choke. “God, no.”

  “Good. I know a lot of them—trust fund kids. Calloway Creek is a very affluent suburb of New York City. They’re all a bunch of stuck-up snobs.”

  I snicker. “Is that so?”

  “Can you imagine people like that doing what you do? Climbing on roofs to fix shingles or shoveling manure? To be fair, they’re not all that way, but a good bit of them.”

  The flight attendant interrupts us, handing us each a cool towel. “Can I offer you a drink before takeoff?”

  “You can offer us two,” Amber says. “Mimosas, please.”

  “Right away.”

  “Wait,” Amber says, calling her back. “Skip the orange juice in mine.” The man across the aisle from Amber chuckles. She turns to him. “We were in a helicopter crash last week.” She taps her boot. “It’s how I got this.” She stares down the flight attendant, who seems speechless. “So, the drinks?”

  “Two champagnes and two mimosas coming up.”

  “Just orange juice for me,” I say. “And one is fine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The flight attendant returns a minute later, politely asking us not to mention the helicopter crash again, as she doesn’t want to incite any panic.

  “I get it,” Amber says to her in a slurred whisper. “You don’t want anyone to know it’s not as safe on a plane as in a helicopter if the engines fail.”

  The woman’s eyes go wide as she checks to see if anyone around us was listening. She leans close. “Airplanes have impeccable safety records, especially this one. I wouldn’t worry about it. Please try to relax and enjoy your flight.”

  Amber raises one of her glasses. “As if.”

  “Stop it,” I say. “You’ll give the poor woman a heart attack.”

  When we back away from the gate and are given the safety briefing, Amber downs the rest of her champagne. Then she waves her empty glass at the flight attendant, who tries to ignore her as she demonstrates how to prepare for a water landing.

  Amber turns to me. “Water landing. Yeah, that’d be the cherry to top off my perfect fucking week. How long do you think it will be before she brings me another?”

  “We have to take off and reach a certain altitude first.”

  The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. “Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.”

  Amber closes her eyes and blows out a long breath. When the engines rev loudly and the plane accelerates down the runway, she grabs my hand and squeezes. “Say something,” she says. “Anything to get my mind off the fact that I could be about to die.”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Her eyes flash open, and she rolls them at me. “Seriously? You’re going with that? We could be about to explode in a tin can full of jet fuel and you go for false flattery?”

  I look down at her hand. She has a death grip on mine. And I think of how much I want her to keep it there. Even after the fear is gone. Even after we land. I don’t ever want her to take it away. What the fuck is happening to me?

  “We’re not going to explode,” I say. “But if we do, I promise the last words I said to you wouldn’t be a lie.”

  The plane takes off. She squeezes harder. Her eyes close again, and she breathes in and out, quickly at first, then slowing as we reach altitude. “Are we up yet?”

  “We’re up. You can relax now.”

  “Hardly. What if the engines go out?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Said the pilot who lost his engine.”

  “It was a fluke. A faulty part made a decade ago in China caused a rare chain reaction that led to complete engine failure.”

  “Yeah, well, flu
kes happen all the time.”

  “Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” I say. “You’re good.”

  “Another lie. When I was a kid, we had a tree that was struck by lightning. It died. My dad had it removed, and we planted a new one. Ten years later, guess what happened?”

  “Okay, so it rarely strikes twice.”

  She shakes her head. “This is so not about lightning.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “My bad luck.” The flight attendant appears with her champagne. “Thank God.” She takes a sip and slurs to me, “Took her long enough.”

  “What’s the plan when we land?” I ask. “Straight to the hospital?”

  “He’s not in a hospital. He’s in a memory care center in Calloway Creek. They have their own ICU and hospice wing.”

  “How long will it take to get there?”

  “My car is at LaGuardia, and we’re flying into JFK. I don’t want to waste any time. I know it will be expensive, but I think we should take a taxi. It’ll probably cost me well over two hundred.”

  “How about you let me take care of that?”

  “No offense, Quinn, because I know you work hard and all, but I’m pretty sure I make more money than you.”

  “Yeah, my salary from DHR is shit. Fine, go ahead and pay. Have you heard anything about how he’s doing today?”

  “Before we got to the airport, the nurse texted me. He’s pretty much up to the maximum oxygen they can give him without putting him on a vent.”

  “So he might be hooked up to a machine by the time you get there?”

  “No, he won’t be. He didn’t want that.”

  “But don’t you make decisions for him?”

  “Yes, but not that one. After he recovered from his respiratory virus, he decided to sign both a DNR and a DNI during a period of lucidity.”

  “I know what DNR means. What’s a DNI?”

  “Do not intubate. He’s a doctor. He knows his situation and didn’t want to prolong his life when there’s not much quality to it anymore. So we agreed—no life-saving measures. No breathing machines. Comfort care only.” She waves her empty glass at the flight attendant.

  “Are you sure you want another? You don’t want to see your dad while drunk.”