Rough Road Home (The Circle D series)

by Harders, Audra

  Nick tightened his clammy palms into fists. He’d not go that route again. Prayers are for the weak to make them weaker. Nick didn’t want to walk in those boots ever again. He’d handle his own life from here on out. He scavenged deep for all the compassion he could muster and reached out to her.

  She flinched at his touch. “Rachel, take my dry clothing. I wore rain gear out there, you didn’t.”

  “I’ll be dry in a bit. No need to worry about me.” She shivered as she crossed her arms. “Look, we’re almost to Casper. I’ll worry about my clothing later.”

  Something didn’t ring right, but Nick wasn’t going to force his clothing on her. For the ever practical Rachel Hill he’d gotten to know, this mulish behavior didn’t fit. “You know, this whole ‘cutting your nose off to spite your face’ thing is stupid.”

  She still wouldn’t look at him, but Nick noticed the barest evidence of a dimple creasing her cheek. He searched for any other bullets of wisdom he could fire. He made a show of rubbing his hands in front of the heat vent. “Mitch is going to string me up if I turn his kin into a niece-sicle. Can’t you find any pity for a poor, banged up cowboy just trying to do his best?”

  Her eyes glassed over as she stared out the windshield. “Just a poor, ol’ cowboy,” her voice trailed.

  “Just trying to do the right thing,” he added hopefully. “You’ve been around rodeo a long time. You know what we’re like.”

  “Yeah, I sure do,” she said so quietly, Nick almost missed it. After a moment, she blinked and turned toward him. “Okay, cowboy. Where are those sweats?”

  Relief torched through Nick like wildfire. If she’d gotten sick, it would’ve been all his fault. If anything worse happened. . .well, he didn’t even want to go there. “Here you go, sweetheart.”

  Her features froze. “Don’t call me that.”

  Whoa. Hot button. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. Here you go, Rachel. I’ll just step outside while you dress.”

  Nick hopped out as a gust hit the truck along with a spray of sleet. He leaned into the wind, hoping Rachel didn’t spend hours in front of a mirror. Minutes later, a knock on the window hailed an all clear. He opened the door and slid into the seat, slamming the weather out with a bang. He turned at the rustle of fabric noting sweat jacket and socks being wrestled into place. Bless her heart for not making him stand in the rain.

  “So, Rachel,” he cleared his throat as he stared straight ahead out the windshield. “How’s Bud doing? No one’s seen hide nor hair of him in years.”

  “He’s fine, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “As fine as anyone can be with a broken back.”

  A shiver having nothing to do with the cold raced up his spine. As far as extreme sports went, bull riding ranked the most dangerous. Men that reached the professional level of success rode with practiced skill. Still, wrecks happened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Some folks do, some don’t. The old timers remember, especially if they were at the rodeo that day. My Dad put on quite a show in Cheyenne.” Fabric rustled and a zipper zipped. “There, all dry. You sure you don’t want to change?”

  Nick sat back and tilted his head until his jaw sat squarely with the rest of his body. The explosion of pain in his head rivaled water crashing over rocks destroying granite boulders in the wake of its fury. He fought back the moisture that burned his eyes. Rachel tossed her bag over the seat into the back of the cab, her face a study of perfect composure. With rubber band in hand, she swept up her wet hair and tied the dark mass away from her face into a ponytail. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror, her features set. Something wasn’t right. She’d shown no emotions as she talked. Strange for a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve.

  “Cheyenne Frontier Days,” he fished as he stretched his arm around the back of her seat. He wanted to comfort her, connect somehow, but uncertainty kept him from getting any closer. “Big rodeo, big crowds.”

  “Got his hand caught in the bull rope,” she continued in a monotone as if reciting the event from memory. “Wolf Bite dragged Dad all around the arena before the bullfighters could free him. Dad even smiled for the crowd as Brent and Louie hauled him out of the ring. They didn’t know how bad his injury was until they got him behind the chutes. Dad said he’d heard a snap, then didn’t feel a thing.”

  Rachel fiddled with the gear shift, her eyes misting. “The rodeo went on that day. The crowd never knew how badly Top Gun Bud Hill had been hurt. The announcer just said, ‘No more rides today for Bud Hill. Give the cowboy a hand.’. . .the crowd gave a loud ‘aawwww.’” She shrugged. “That was it.”

  Rubbing her arms hard enough to start a fire, she drew a deep breath. “He came home for good after seventeen years on the circuit. He runs the ranch as best he can and Mom’s happy to fuss over him all the time.”

  “I didn’t know, Rachel.” Nick absorbed her story. “Bull riding lost a great man.”

  She shook her head whipping the wet strands of her ponytail across the top of her shoulders. “‘When God closes a door, He opens a window,’ Uncle Mitch always says. Dad can do some incredible things at the ranch from the seat of an ATV or utility vehicle. Someday when you’re in the area, you should stop by and see him. He’s still a bull rider, through and through.” She paused, her brows drawn. “A bull rider a lot like you.”

  Without another word, Rachel retrieved her MP3, positioned the earbuds and clicked on the player. A soft hum emitted from her lips. She sat back in her seat, put the truck in gear and eased onto the highway.

  Nick withdrew his arm from the back of her seat. Strange puzzle, this Rachel Hill. She didn’t tell people about her father, yet she traveled the circuit with her stock contractor uncle because she was on vacation from her high-powered, financial career. Nick shook his head sending shards of pain down his neck. What was he missing here? They were close to Casper, so Nick probably wouldn’t have time to find his answers. Maybe Mitch would fill in the gaps to make this whole thing make sense.

  Nick grinned in spite of the pounding pressure in his head. She thought he was like her father. That had to be a good sign, wasn’t it? The road became a blur, the windshield wipers keeping a perfect 3/4 time. Mile markers zipped by them at lightning speed. Wow, she could haul down the highway when she wanted to. . .They’d make it to Casper in no time now. . . He struggled to keep the darkness at bay. He still had to apologize. . ..

  CHAPTER TEN

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Hadn’t she vowed not to talk about her Dad? She should have just taken the barb about changing the tire and left it at that. But no, turning her cheek had never come easily to Rachel Hill.

  Oh, Lord, I did it again, didn’t I? She prayed for reassurance that she hadn’t done anything too damaging. The wind blew, sleet fell and Rachel wallowed in her own brand of misery, mentally kicking herself for allowing pride to overcome her better judgment. A mistake not to happen again.

  Long ago, she’d stopped revealing her relationship with Bud Hill. As soon as cowboys found out about her Dad, they no longer saw her as Rachel; they saw her as either an easy ticket to Bud or placed her on a pedestal of perfection, a carbon copy of her dad and avoided her at all costs. Praise the Lord she’d had her mother’s side of the family. She traveled all over with Uncle Mitch and fit in as just one of the guys.

  Swiping her cuff over her face, she glanced at her chipped nails and dirt-encrusted fingers and had to stifle a chuckle. If her clients could only see her now, they’d run for the hills, portfolios in hand. Her grin faded as she adjusted the heat vent toward Nick, then re-gripped the steering wheel. She’d loved spending time with Uncle Mitch on the road, helping with the bulls and all the other chores necessary to transport stock. She also loved her career. Building retirement security for her clients provided an amazing challenge.

  She had the best of both worlds.

  Rachel adjusted the volume on her player. Her worries faded as she hummed
along with the quick tempo of praise and thanked the Lord for all His blessings in her life. Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. . .His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. Nothing to worry about. The Lord had it all under control. Her grip eased on the steering wheel.

  Miles swept by as the terrain changed from flat to hilly. The sleet had long since subsided, but the wind picked up its pace. Only natural for this part of Wyoming. Rachel followed the markers along the highway in a quest for a gas station and bathroom. She looked over at Nick, praying he’d continue to sleep as she navigated road repair. The silence had been nice. Only the weather, her music and the road–-she’d take anything over having to make further conversation with Nick Davidson.

  The man drove her nuts.

  She wasn’t his type, and heaven only knew he wasn’t hers, so why did she feel this connection, this attraction to a cowboy she barely knew? He challenged her at every turn and harassed her every decision, yet she sensed a vulnerability to him that had nothing to do with his injury. He made her angry; he made her laugh. He had an annoying way of making her look at herself under a light that was none too flattering and then making her wonder how she’d ever become so cynical in the first place.

  On the one hand, he embodied every trait she ever disliked in a man, from arrogance to chauvinism, not to mention his rodeo profession. She glanced over at him just as she plunged into a good sized pothole. He continued to sleep, his long lashes the perfect touch to his lean, strong jaw.

  A smile tugged at her lips despite her heavy heart. Her one hand was fine, but it was always the other hand that got her into trouble. Even sporting a bruised and battered face, Nick was one good-lookin’ cowboy. Magnetism like his needed a license.

  A sign up ahead indicated a service station. She turned on her signal and pulled up to a pump marked diesel. Yes, sir. Nick Davidson sure made an interesting travel buddy. Imagine what the trip would have been like if they’d actually enjoyed each other.

  Rachel shoved the thought from her mind as she turned off the engine. They didn’t like each other and that wouldn’t change. She needed her security back in Denver surrounded by phones and numbers and quotes, the tangibles that grounded her in the here and now. The Lord was giving her a second chance and she wasn’t going to let Him down again.

  She reached out to brush the hair from Nick’s forehead but stopped short of touching the sandy blond hair that looked so thick and soft. A rodeo cowboy; a bull rider no less. Life was his way and the highway, and she’d spent enough of her life seeing where the highway led to never want to go down that road again. Sure, Dad was home now, and Rachel absolutely accepted her mother’s contentment with the entire situation. Still, Rachel couldn’t help but wonder what life would have been like if her dad hadn’t taken that last ride.

  Hopping out of the cab, she unlocked the gas cap and started the pump. The cold air blew with a vengeance, but at least the sleet had stopped. It hadn’t taken longer than an hour to reach Casper. Now all she had to do was deposit one ornery cowboy at Uncle Mitch’s feet, rent a car, and be gone by mid-afternoon. She glanced up at the thick covering of clouds above her. The forecast said snow tomorrow morning. With the highway clear, she’d probably make it back to Denver by early evening. If her luck held, she’d avoid the storm altogether.

  Tank topped off, Rachel replaced the cap and snapped the door closed. She knocked on the passenger door, but Nick slept away. Frustrated, she rounded the hood and jerked open her door.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, we’re here.”

  Nick remained propped against the door, not a muscle moved. With an unladylike comment stifled under her breath, she hoisted herself up into the driver seat and nudged his knee. “Nick, wake up. We’re in Casper. I just fed the beast and I need your credit card.”

  A knot of dread formed in her belly as Rachel sucked in her breath. Grabbing his shoulder, she shook harder. “Nick, c’mon. Wake up.” Nothing.

  With a trembling hand, she reached up and lifted his eyelid.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Patience had never been Rachel’s strong suit.

  Tired of pacing the floor, she slumped into the vinyl waiting room chair and looked out the window at the dark, dense clouds. They’d arrived at the emergency room at noon. The wood trimmed clock in the corner of the room now read almost six o’clock. How long could a few tests take?

  She closed her eyes. Lord help me. . .I beg Your mercy. . .Protect Nick. . .Let him be alright. She’d been so scared at the gas station when she couldn’t awaken Nick. She tried to remember every instruction the nurse at the hospital in Rapid City had given her, but could only recall the directive to haul him to the nearest hospital if he wouldn’t come around. Come around. A lump lodged in her throat. By the time the ambulance arrived, he’d looked so pale, so unnaturally still.

  She’d asked the paramedics if Nick was going to die.

  Her heart lurched at the thought.

  The times she’d been less than kind to Nick paraded through her mind, the exercise only revving her anxiety. In the past 24 hours, he’d gone from being an irritating chore to something akin to a challenging archeological dig - she continually unearthed surprising nuggets of information. Another half hour crept by. What were they doing to him? The empty waiting room walls gave her no answers.

  Rachel shot to her feet again. The heels of her boots clicked sharply against the tile floor as she paced from window to wall. Where just moments ago fear and anguish had held the reins, frustration now settled in full force. Stupid, stupid, cowboy, she raged silently as she settled into her trek around the room. Bull riders never had enough sense to consider the last ride as the best and next ride might be the last. No, they needed to jump at the chance to ride any bull still able to buck.

  The bull of a lifetime. How many times had Rachel heard her father say it? How many times had she watched her mother wave out the door, unshed tears in her eyes as her father climbed into his pickup and headed off? How many times had they been afraid to answer the phone, certain some official was calling to say Dad had been hurt?

  And how the anguish tore her heart when the call finally came.

  Rachel swiped at her eyes. Her dad was her dad, she could never change that, but she’d be dogged if she shed a single tear over some misguided cowboy she barely knew who didn’t even have enough sense to go home and heal, and forget the crazy nonsense that hurt him in the first place. A muscle spasmed in her back. She swung her arms to relieve the pain.

  “Mrs. Davidson?”

  Rachel glanced up but kept marching across the room. A young man dressed in brightly colored scrubs stood by the door.

  “Mrs. Davidson,” he said with a bit more force.

  Rachel stopped and blinked.

  “We’ve transferred your husband to a patient room. The doctor will see you in a moment. Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Is Nick okay?” she asked, ignoring the erroneous title of marital relationship he’d assigned her.

  “I don’t have any information, ma’am.” The young man tilted his head to the side and offered a grin. “The doctor will be in shortly. I just wanted to let you know Mr. Davidson had been moved to a room.”

  “Of course, thank you.” The muscles in her back loosened.

  The man nodded and left the room as quietly as he’d entered. After six hours of testing, they’d moved him to a room. That had to be a good sign, right? Before she could resume pacing, the door opened again admitting a youngish-looking man with curly dark hair. A white lab coat contrasted with his rainbow patterned tie. The stethoscope bunched in his pocket lent an air of authority as did the tabbed folder he carried in his hand.

  “You’re the doctor.” Rachel had to work hard at making it a statement, not a question.

  “Dr. McMillan.” He extended his hand. “Neurology.”

  Good grip for a brain surgeon. “Is Nick alright?”

  He motioned toward the navy
and tan upholstered lounger as he swung a chair around and straddled it. She took a step back and plopped down.

  “That all depends on your definition of alright, Mrs. Davidson. We took an MRI of his brain and compared it to the scan taken in Rapid City. The blood clot appears to have shifted.”

  Rachel bit the inside of her cheek and prayed for confirmation. “They told me it might and not to worry about it.”

  “Well, to a point. Right now, it’s fine. If it shifts again, any number of things could happen.”

  “Any number of things,” she echoed, taken off guard by the ominous warning. “How much danger is he in?”

  “We’ve detected a slight swelling, nothing dangerous.” He tapped the spine of the folder on the back of the chair to sift stray papers in place. “Yet.”

  Rachel ignored the small voice urging her to correct his misconception of her relationship with Nick. Dr. McMillan might not tell her if he knew they’d only met yesterday. “Slight swelling?” she urged.

  “Very slight. We’ll keep him here until it disappears. If everything appears fine, he can leave tomorrow.” He opened the front cover of the folder and flipped through papers. “You’re not from Casper and I’m not familiar with the medical facilities close to Hawk Ridge, so I can’t offer any recommendations. I strongly urge you to find a neurosurgeon and have another MRI in about a week.”

  “How long will his condition have to be monitored?”

  “That’s tough to say.” The boyish appearance disappeared as he frowned and rubbed his hand across his face. “Brain injuries are unpredictable. Nothing says the clot won’t dissolve. Or, he may have years where the clot won’t bother him. Or, he may do something that loosens it again and it shifts causing some neurological deficit. At that point, you’re looking at surgery.” Dr. McMillan flipped the pages forward and studied the front page. “Your husband might consider doing some armchair rodeoing for awhile. Any extreme contact sport carries with it an elevated degree of injury re-occurrence. It may be an occupational hazard he’d want to avoid.”