Rough Road Home (The Circle D series)

by Harders, Audra

  Dottie held out her arm, the cuff of her sleeve covering her knuckles. “Jon, go see if he needs help.”

  Jon glared at his wife before taking tentative steps into the room. “Hey, Nick? You okay?” Jon kept a good three feet from the edge of the bed. “The women here are worried about ya.”

  Nick rolled over, flinging his arm wide. From the dim light in the other room, Rachel noted the crumpled shirt and jeans, relieved her traveling companion had chosen to sleep fully clothed as she had.

  “Nick,” Jon called a bit gruffer. “Are you okay?”

  The air in the room stilled. Rachel listened as Nick’s breathing became slow and even. She leaned against the doorway feeling foolish over her worry. Lots of people were restless sleepers, nothing to worry about. Just because Nick tossed and turned a bit at night didn’t mean he was about to fall into a coma. Rachel closed her eyes and thanked God nothing more serious than a fitful sleep had frightened her. What would she have done. . .no, she didn’t want to go there. One battle a night was enough for her.

  “Suppose he’s okay?” Dottie clutched at her robe. “Should we call the doc?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rachel approached the bed and pulled the cover back over his shoulder. “The nurse told me to watch for signs. I don’t think he’s in trouble.”

  Frustration tightened the corners of her mouth as she sorted through bits of information the nurse had given her, trying to piece together an acceptable response. Nothing came to mind. Her fist tightened on the cotton comforter. Babysitting this cowboy and his concussion against further injury was the whole reason she’d delayed her return to Denver and jeopardized her precarious career. Why couldn’t she remember emergency procedure?

  A moan crescendoed into a growl as Nick rolled over again.

  “Here we go again.” Jon ran his hand through his messed hair. “Should I wake him up?”

  Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest as his shoulders turned toward her. Average bull riders had maybe a couple of inches on her own height. Nick stood at least six inches taller than her, his chest impossibly wide. He posed just as much a threat in his sleep as awake. Lord, what am I supposed to do? “Nick.” She jostled the covers beneath his arm. “You need to wake up. Come on, let’s go.”

  “You can’t go,” he mumbled. His palm wrapped around her wrist. “You’ll die.”

  Her heart rate sped up. Nick could snap her arm like a matchstick if she wasn’t careful. He’d confessed he’d somehow been responsible for the death of his wife, and in the clutches of unforgiving sleep, his mind refused to let him forget. No drug-induced sleep could stem the flow of guilt he clutched close as truth. Grabbing for Jon’s sleeve, Rachel leaned closer, relieving the pressure of his grip. “It’s me, Rachel. You need to wake up, Nick.”

  He pulled her closer until her hip sank onto the edge of the bed. His thumb dug into her palm and loosened her fist. “Let go.”

  Another groan as he hauled her against his chest. If she didn’t act fast, he’d have her tossed across the bed in no time. Throwing caution to the wind, she plucked at his sleeve with her other hand, pinching arm hair in the process.

  “Ouch.” He released her wrist just as the forearm she’d pinched shoved her away. “What. . .?”

  Rachel sidestepped out of the way as Jon shook Nick’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Nick rolled to one side, his eyelids fluttered as if fighting the intrusion. His arm swung wide allowing Jon to duck out easily enough. Rachel stepped up and steadied him. Nick jerked away like a calf bolting from a branding iron. In one fluid motion, he threw back the covers and sat straight up.

  “What are you doing?” Blond hair ruffled in every direction, Nick swiped his hand over his face.

  Jon cleared his throat. “Just checking on you, buddy. Need a drink of water or something?”

  “You were restless.” Rachel reached out and rubbed his arm. “We tried to help.”

  Nick jerked away and look around the room. His brows drew together as he shook his head. “What happened?”

  “You were having a nightmare, Nick.” Dottie rubbed her arms against the chilled air. “We didn’t know if you needed help.”

  “It’s nothing.” His words lingered in the darkness until a gust of wind drowned out all noise save for its own mournful howl.

  Rachel folded her arms across her waist. “I thought maybe the medication--”

  “It’s nothing,” he snapped and pushed the covers further to the side. “I’m fine.”

  She lowered her hands to her sides as her rational thought returned. She should have known this was coming. No self-respecting cowboy ever claimed to need anyone. “Fine. Glad to hear it. Now, since we know we’re not needed, I guess we can all go back to sleep.”

  Dottie and Jon looked from one to the other. “You sure you’re alright, Nick?” Jon eyed Nick closely. “Maybe a quick snack will help.”

  “Great,” Dottie chimed in as she headed out of the room. “I’ll put on a pot of tea and we can chat.”

  “Yep, a midnight snack will make everything better,” Jon muttered as he followed Dottie out the doorway. The kitchen light snapped on and water ran in the sink.

  Rachel knelt down beside Nick. She smoothed his tousled hair aside revealing strain beneath bruised eyes. Nick Davidson harbored much more than a concussion to worry about. Energy drained from her like water from a stock tank. The stress of this entire adventure was wearing thin on both of them. Her hand slid to his shoulders where her fingers traced ruts sculpted by tension. Out of habit, she began to knead the knotted muscles. They both needed a good night’s sleep.

  “Glad you’re alright.” Her voice fractured.

  He flexed his arm and pulled away. “I told you not to worry.”

  “Right.” She rose to her feet and bent a knee to the bed frame to steady herself. “I’ll keep that in mind next time you yell in the middle of the night.”

  He stared straight ahead as he plowed his hand through his hair. “Your babysitting services aren’t wanted.”

  The familiar words bore none of their usual bite. Helpless wasn’t a state cowboys accepted easily. An odd niggle of compassion warmed her cheek. She stifled a yawn and turned toward the doorway. “Dottie is making tea. Need a cup?”

  Mattress springs groaned as Nick swung his legs around and stood up. He caught her around the shoulders and swayed until Rachel worried she’d not be able to hold him up. Nick caught his balance and leaned on her - another weakness she knew would not sit well with him. “You don’t have to join us, Nick.”

  He pulled her close and stood in silence. The wind rattled the window as his warm breath tickled her ear. “You’ve had enough of me for one night. Get some sleep and I’ll sip tea with our hosts.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sleet hit the windshield as the truck cruised along at fifty miles an hour. Nick didn’t care about the speed anymore. They’d make it to Casper. He’d find Buster McKnight and share a room; Rachel would rent a car and head home. He wondered if they would even say good-bye to each other.

  He hadn’t meant to tear into her. He hadn’t meant to insult her, to hurt her feelings. He hadn’t planned on encountering Rachel Hill in the middle of the night while the demons of his sins partied in his mind until the cows came home.

  He swiped his hand over his face for the hundredth time since breakfast. His nightmare had returned. Stephanie leaving. . .him trying to stop her. . .and the watery wall of illusion that kept him from seeing anything else. But last night was different. A voice came from out of nowhere, calling his name, dragging him away from the repetitious scene and ragged emotions. With that voice came peace. He probably would’ve slept soundly the rest of the night had that voice continued its coaxing vein. Rachel had saved him last night in more ways than the obvious and no way could he thank her for doing it.

  Nick glanced at the side mirror as sleet coated the road behind them. Some situations never made sense. The people you think you can depend on thr
ough the hard times let you down while the least likely candidates come through like a charm. He didn’t know anything about Rachel Hill other than she’d been there for him, the proverbial lighthouse in the fog of life.

  Windshield wipers slapped across the window in front of him, icy sleet building up once again as soon as the surface cleared. Bleak, wet highway stretched before him, much like the path of his life. Hotel rooms, road meals, no name faces. . .his existence suited him. Don’t get involved and you don’t have to care.

  The hum of the truck engine filled his mind, as did the memory of Rachel’s soothing voice infiltrating his sleep. Nick stole a glance. Her thumbs caressed the steering wheel as her hands competently guided the truck toward Casper. Nick clenched his jaw against the mounting tension. No way would he explain his outburst. No way would he confess how much he’d appreciated her presence to pull him out of the nightmare. No way would he encourage her in any way, shape or form.

  In some bizarre way, she held too much power over him as it was.

  Trees rushed by them in a blur. They were making great time now, even with the wet roads. Rachel drove like a pro, her detestable earbuds in place since early this morning.

  It was better this way. Nick nodded to himself. They’d awakened in silence, they’d eaten in silence, now they drove in silence. Kinda like an instant replay of his marriage.

  Ka-thunk.

  “Whoa.” Rachel glanced in the rear view mirror, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “I didn’t need this.”

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  “Hold tight,” Nick commanded as he reached over to help. “The weight of the truck should make stopping easy.”

  She brushed his hand away. “I know how to drive out a flat tire. Relax.”

  She maneuvered the vehicle to the side of the road. The clatter of the diesel engine kept rhythm with the rocking of the cab. Rachel shifted to park. Removing her earbuds, she sat still, her eyes closed.

  Nick muttered under his breath. A flat tire. He listened to the sleet hitting the top of the cab. The last thing they needed was trouble, and now they had it with a capital T. The thought of icy rain running down his back while he wrestled with a 60-pound tire only added fuel to his foul mood. He had rain gear–-

  “This shouldn’t take me long.” Rachel removed her MP3 player and cords, sliding them carelessly atop the dashboard. Faint strands of tinny music filtered through the air before she snapped the button to silence. She turned in her seat and dragged her pack up to the front of the cab. “I assume you have a full-sized spare?” She began to rummage through her pack.

  “I’ll change the tire,” he returned, the hum in his head started by the flat, now compounded by her attitude.

  Pulling out a lined windbreaker, she jammed an arm into a sleeve. “Where is it written that changing tires is your job? I’m perfectly capable of doing this. You stay in here and take care of yourself.” She stomped down on the side pedal effectively setting the emergency brake. “Make sure you don’t knock the stick into reverse, okay? I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Before Nick could argue, she piled out of the cab and slammed the door behind her. Stunned, he sat there all of five seconds before reaching behind his seat and grabbing his rain poncho.

  Take care of yourself.

  He certainly could take care of himself. . .and her. Women. Give them the upper hand in any situation and they think they own the world. Shoving the door open, he pulled the hood over his head and slipped out. Sleet pelted his head as pain pounded in his temples. He slammed the cab door behind him despite the spots swimming in the corner of his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he cleared his vision and turned toward the bed of the truck, catching the edge of the rail for balance. Change the tire on a full-ton, 4-wheel drive pickup. Even Mitch wouldn’t put his niece to work like that.

  When he reached the back of the truck, Rachel was already cranking down the spare from beneath the bed of the truck. He slapped his hand on top of the tailgate sending droplets of water flying in every direction. She didn’t look up.

  “Get back in the truck before you hurt yourself.” He reached for the tire iron. “I’ll get this done.”

  “I think you’ve got it the other way around,” she shouted over the driving wind as she shoved his hand away. “You’re the one who’s hurt and needs to take care. I’ve changed plenty of tires over the years, what’s one more?”

  Nick held onto the tailgate as a gust of icy wind hit him square in the face. He bent over and caught the edge of the rim before it tipped forward and dumped out of the spare tire carrier. “A pickup truck is a far cry from a Lexus, or Benz, or whatever it is you drive at home, and I don’t see a local dealership in sight running over here with an umbrella and Cappuccino. Now--”

  Rachel grabbed the tire and in two jerks had the steel belted, all-season radial bounced onto the ground. She leaned the spare against the bumper, squared her stance, and pinned him with her gaze, her green eyes spitting fire. “I’ve had enough, cowboy. I don’t know why you think I’m incapable of taking care of myself, but I’ve got news for you, buddy. Bud Hill expected his daughter to tow her fair share around the ranch, just like the other hands. No free rides; no excuse for shoddy work. Now, it’s cold and wet and really miserable out here. Do you want to stand around and jaw all day, or do you want to get on down the road?” Not waiting for an answer, she flipped the latch, slapped the tailgate down and rummaged around for the jack.

  Bud Hill’s daughter. The name flashed through Nick’s mind like a neon sign. He sidestepped around the truck bed to get out of her way. Bud Hill. Bud Hill ranked right up there alongside other bull riding legends like Donny Gay, Tuff Hedeman, and Ty Murray. But where Gay and Hedeman remained active on the circuit after retiring from the ride, no one had heard anything from Bud Hill after his last wreck five or six years earlier. He’d just dropped out of sight.

  Rachel brushed against him as she positioned the jack into place. Nick grabbed a wrench out of the tool box. He bent down and captured a lug nut, then stomped on the handle of the wrench to loosen the fitting. While doing the same for the other five lug nuts, he wracked his memory for any recent information on Bud Hill. Nothing. Especially nothing about a daughter named Rachel, or a stock contractor relative conveniently named Mitch Cauldwell.

  As sleet sheeted across his back, he removed the wrench while Rachel raised the back of the truck bed until the wheel spun free and he could remove the tire. Rachel stepped back and stood still, spare propped up against her thigh, looking for all the world like a ranch hand just doing what had to be done. The wind and wet whipped around her, but she held her ground and waited for him. Understanding dawned bright and clear over why Rachel stood out in his mind from the moment he’d met her. Rachel Hill, despite her oozing femininity, proved more capable than just about anyone else he knew. There was no mewling or whining over situations or circumstances.

  She just did what had to be done.

  And after their past twenty-four hours, Nick gave her more credit for resilience than himself. Shameful.

  Nick positioned the spare and tightened the fittings as Rachel finished fastening the flat tire into the carrier. She didn’t say anything as she stored the tools away, wiped her palms down the legs of her wet jeans and moved toward the cab.

  What was he supposed to say now? He hadn’t a clue. All he knew was his head was splitting with pain and he’d just made a fool of himself. It made no difference who Rachel was, he shouldn’t have behaved so chauvinistically with any woman, and he better take the time to apologize.

  The engine continued its comforting clatter as he climbed into the cab, the heater firing a hundred-degree air from the fan filling the cab with warmth. “Look, Rachel--”

  She held up the palm of her hand as if talking to a child. “There’s nothing to say. You have your opinions, and I have mine. The more we keep to ourselves, the better.”

  Why was she so defensive now? His head felt like a concrete block about
to explode. He didn’t want to argue with her, he just wanted to sleep. “You said you were Mitch Cauldwell’s niece. How was I supposed to know you were Bud’s daughter?”

  “What difference does it make who I’m related to? Besides, it’s not something I usually advertise. You just got me so mad, I lost my head.” She stared at the dashboard in front of her, her bottom jaw chattering as she wiped the moisture away with her hand. “You’re so much like my dad, you drive me crazy.”

  He wanted to reply, but his mouth wouldn’t work. As she reached to shift into gear, Nick caught her hand. Her skin like ice shocked his cold palm. “You’re soaking wet. At least take a minute to change clothes.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “I don’t have anything warmer with me.”

  “I do.” Nick reached around and grabbed his duffle bag. He unzipped the top and pulled out a pair of bleach stained, blue sweat pants. “Here. Might not be the height of fashion, but they’re clean and dry.”

  Rachel stared at him as if he’d grown a second nose. “I can’t wear your pants. Besides, you’re wet, too. Why don’t you slip them on?” She turned toward the window. “I promise I won’t look.”

  The catch in her voice stopped him from the scathing retort itching on his tongue. Of course modesty would go hand in hand with Rachel Hill. Nick noticed the hunch of her shoulders and knew modesty wasn’t the entire issue here. Oh Lord, what should he do now?

  Immediately, upon his call for help, scraps of old favorite prayers flitted through his mind. Elementary prayers; thankful prayers; funny prayers. Unrelated bits and pieces melded together to form praise out of nonsensical thought. Nick closed his eyes to see more, to feel more, to relive moments gone and forgotten. Joyful prayers immediately gave way to pleas and agony, and visions of a dark hospital bed, empty and cold. Stephanie dead.