by Cindy Gerard
None of it meant anything.
“Right,” he muttered as he dragged his razor across his jaw and glared at the fool who faced him in the mirror. “It meant nothing.”
Nothing except that there was a very real, very disturbing, possibility that the desire to be more to Sloan Gantry than he’d ever been to a woman was something that was never, ever, going to turn him loose.
It was over in seconds. Seconds that seemed like an eternity as a stunned crowd watched in a helpless, breathless horror.
One second D.U. had been nding tight, his free hand jerking in the air for balance, his inside leg clamped and steady. The next, he’d lost his grip on his bull rope.
He’d fallen into the well, and kept on falling until he’d hit the ground like a javelin hurled at ninety miles an hour. The impact had knocked him out cold. He’d bounced off the arena floor then lay limp and defenseless as Thunder Cloud spun his hips around, lowered his great homed head and charged D.U.’s lifeless form.
The clowns worked frantically to distract the rampaging bull away from the helpless cowboy lying unconscious on the arena floor. The announcer muffled the mike and yelled for someone to call the ambulance—fast!
Jesse watched it all as if it were a bad dream, held in check by three bull riders who had grabbed him when they’d seen he was about to scale the fence to try to drag D.U. out of harm’s way.
Intellectually, he knew they were right to stop him. The clowns knew their business and his intervention would jeopardize rather than improve D.U.’s position. They were, by design, a rag-tag crew who looked as though they were only there for fun and games. But underneath the clown paint and baggy clothes, these men were the bull rider’s lifeline. They would be the ones who could get D.U. to safety.
Yeah Intellectually, he knew that. Emotionally, though, he felt as though he was being ripped apart as the outraged bull ground D.U. into the dust like a rag doll until the clowns finally managed to waylay him from D.U.’s mangled body and herd him out of the arena.
The crowd held its collective breath as the Justin Healers raced to D.U.’s side with a medical kit and a stretcher. Jesse was fast on their heels. He was aware of gates clanging, of the interminably long creep of time until blue lights flashed and a path was cleared for the ambulance to drive into the arena.
Carefully, they administered triage. Solemnly, they lifted D.U.’s unconscious, broken and bloody form onto the stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance.
“He got any kin?” one of the attendants asked grimly just before they shut the doors.
Jesse swallowed hard. There was blood everywhere. D.U.’s leg was twisted at an odd angle. His flack vest was gouged by a huge cloven hoof and ripped by a piercing horn.
“I’m as close as he’s got here,” he said, and climbed in behind the stretcher. The look he shot the attendant said there would not be an argument about him going along. There wasn’t.
He tried not to think on the ride to the hospital. Couldn’t feel past the nauseous knot of fear that clogged his throat and stalled his breath.
The siren wailed. The ambulance careened around a corner. The paramedics worked frantically at stemming the blood flow and aiding D.U.’s breathing.
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Jesse bowed his head and prayed to God that this man wouldn’t die.
It was after midnight when Sloan was finally able to get to the hospital. The picture of D.U. lying broken and bleeding in the dirt had never been far from her mind.
It wasn’t a Snowy River bull that had cut loose on him, but it could have been. The threat of being mauled by a bull was a real and dangerous possibility that every bull rider understood when they climbed on one of those massive backs and pitted man’s strength and wit against an animal’s power and rage. It was a possibility every stock contractor lived with, too. Knowing it was close to inevitable didn’t make it any easier when one among the ranks fell.
Sloan stopped at the information desk. What little news they could give her about D.U.’s condition wasn’t good. He’d arrived more than three hours ago and was still in surgery. After getting directions, she searched and found Jesse in the ER waiting room.
Her heart, so geared toward closing up when she was around him, opened with a wealth of compassion at the sight of him sitting there. He was leaning forward on a chrome-and-fabric sofa, his elbows propped on bent knees, his forehead resting heavily on the sling of his loosely laced fingers. His hat was pulled low on his brow, his jaw clenched, his eyes closed.
He looked so alone in his vigil, distancing himself even from Yancy Cole and Jerome Smith, a couple of cowboys who rode the circuit with Jesse and D.U., who were sipping coffee and talking softly in the corner of the dimly lit room. From the hard, closed set of Jesse’s jaw, she could see he’d also distanced himself from his pain. At least he’d tried to. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that he hadn’t been successful, or that his fear for D.U. was haunting him.
Yancy looked up when she walked into the room, gave her a tight, tired smile. When she probed his eyes, he just shook his head, telling her nothing and everything in that one weary look. One of their own had fallen. They were scared for him, relieved it wasn’t them, feeling guilty with the weight of that relief and abundantly aware that it could have been them.
Letting out a tension-filled breath, she braced herself and walked over to Jesse. He didn’t look up when she sat down beside him, yet she knew he was aware that she was there. She didn’t press him to speak. She just sat quietly beside him, letting him know she was there for him.
When she’d gotten into her truck and headed for the hospital, she hadn’t thought about why she was going. She’d just known she had to go. There was nothing she could do for D.U. but pray, and she’d done plenty of that. But she’d known Jesse would be hurting. She’d wanted to be there to help him through it—as he’d been there for her this afternoon.
As she’d learned a long time ago, his outlaw reputation was all hype, his laid-back swagger, a deceptively protective cover-up. He perpetuated the image of a good ole boy with nothing more on his mind than wooing the next woman into his arms or elbowing up to the bar at the next watering hole. He hid behind it.
But there was more, much more to the man. He was a committed friend. And he had feelings that ran river deep.
There was something else about Jesse she’d discovered, too. Something she’d suspected for some time now, but that hadn’t fallen into place until he’d worked alongside her this afternoon, giving her little pieces of himself through his dialogue about his family. He’d deny it in a heartbeat, but Jesse James, who night after night fearlessly placed himself in danger equivalent to a train wreck, was hiding a very surprising but very real vulnerability. It had taken her a long time to catalog it. But it had only taken this afternoon, when she, herself, was so undeniably vulnerable to recognize the same trait in him.
He was a man on the run. A man afraid of letting anyone get too close. Afraid of counting on someone to be there for him. It was apparent through his conversation that he loved his family—yet he even ran from them, always on the move, afraid to include them in his life. She didn’t know what had perpetuated that fear, maybe she would never know. She only knew that even at the risk of opening herself up to something she may not want to handle, she didn’t want him to be afraid tonight. And she didn’t want him to be alone.
The silence lengthened and thickened until, with a huge, weary breath, Jesse finally broke it.
“Just the other day,” he said with a quiet abruptness that told her he might not even be aware that he’d spoken out aloud. Once the words were out, though, he gave in to the need to voice them.
“Just the other day,” he repeated, his voice raw with fatigue, rough with pain, “I was thinking about a summer a few years back. D.U. and I hadn’t teamed up yet, but we’d been bumping into each other on and off for several years.”
He stopped, pressed his thumbs to his temples and
rubbed before continuing. “We were at the Cody rodeo. And it was a bust. It had rained for a solid week before we got there and it never did let up. Everybody was down and ouchy because we couldn’t compete. D.U. decided he needed to do something about it.”
A grim smile tightened the hard line of his mouth. “The damn fool talked Charhe Liemon into saddling up. He’d hunted up a pair of water skies, and the next thing we knew, Charlie’s big bay was plowing across that muddy arena, and D.U. was hanging on to a rope knotted around the saddle horn, skiing in the mud. Funniest damn thing you’ve ever seen.”
Not a flicker of humor touched his mouth or reached his eyes as he stopped. Lifted his head. Stared into space.
“He was mud up to his eyebrows. The only thing white on him was his teeth when he flew by grinning.
“Damn fool,” he said again fondly, the ache hard in his voice, the lines of his face tightly drawn.
He slumped back against the sofa and scrubbed his hands over his face. “He was getting too damn old for this,” he added wearily. “Somebody should have done him a favor and pointed it out.”
Somebody like me, was left unspoken in the residue of guilt in his tone.
“I suspect he’s doing just what he wants to do,” she said softly. “And I don’t figure anyone else’s opinion on the subject would make a bit of difference.”
He looked at her then, his blue eyes tortured, his rugged face haggard and drawn. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” .
And then he just kept on looking at her. “What are you doing here, Sloan?”
She held his gaze and answered him simply. “I thought you might like some company.”
He searched her face in the gloomy, antiseptic light. “Why?”
He wasn’t asking why she’d thought it. He was asking why she had come at all. He was asking why it mattered to her that he might need someone by his side.
“Because friends look out for each other.” Only after she’d said it did she realize that she’d come to think of him as one. “And because I figured D.U. wasn’t the only one who needed a little looking out for right about now.”
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Well, it’s not me lying busted up on that operating table.”
“No, it’s just you out here beating yourself up with worry. They’re taking care of him, Jess.”
She laid a hand on his arm and felt the involuntary bunching of the muscles of his forearm beneath her fingers. She left it there until he gradually relaxed and then, in an action that surprised them both, he covered her hand with his. It felt huge and calloused and strong covering hers, and yet she sensed that at this moment, he was drawing his strength from her.
Their eyes met. His were so weary, so blue, it made her heart clench. And in that moment she was hit by another immediate and undeniable truth, a truth that was both difficult and easy to face.
She was in love with him.
It was just that easy.
It was just that right.
And just that wrong.
Seven
She loved Jesse James. Deeply. Helplessly. And while it was the most foolish mistake she could possibly make, it was a relief to finally accept and admit it—if only to herself.
The revelation should have scared her to Snowy River and back. But for some reason, she wasn’t afraid. Nor was she foolish enough to think he felt the same way, or that he had it in him to stick around even if he did.
She knew exactly what Jesse was. She knew the extent of what he could give to a woman: good times and short terms. And she was smart enough, this time, to understand that. Just as she was strong enough, this time, to handle the hurt when he left.
And it would hurt, she accepted pragmatically. She acknowledged that and in doing so also acknowledged a few other truths she hadn’t let herself own up to.
She’d been lonely for a long time. For a man. For a relationship. For the emotional and physical love that had been missing so long from her life. For the excitement a man like Jesse James could bring to a life that had become work and responsibility and little else.
She made a decision then. With her eyes wide open, she decided that whatever he was willing to give her, she was willing to take. No questions asked. No promises made. She’d be content with the moment. And when it was over, she’d treasure the memories and get on with her life.
Life, as they’d all been so jarringly reminded tonight, was short. Life was precious. And in the face of D.U.’s battle to hang on to it, it became increasingly obvious that she’d be a fool to waste it running from the one thing, the one man, who could enrich hers even if only for a little while.
She decided something else then, too. Jesse would never know how she felt about him. It would be her secret. It would be her sin.
She felt his hand tense suddenly beneath hers, saw him swallow, and followed his gaze to the waiting room door.
A doctor in green scrubs looked over the occupants of the room. “Is anyone here waiting for news of Tom Stringer?”
As she stood, Jesse rose stiffly to his feet beside her. Yancy and Jerome were quick to follow.
“We’re with Tom,” Sloan said when all three cowboys just stood there, their eyes a little bright, their expressions as grim as a storm-clouded sky.
The doctor wasted no time spelling it out. “He’s broken up pretty badly. Multiple facial fractures, broken ribs, collarbone, his left femur. But those are the least of his worries. We had to take out his spleen. He’s got a badly bruised kidney. Those he can live with. It’s the effect of the head trauma that’s still unknown.”
He stopped and gave a small shake of his head. “There was a lot of intracranial bleeding. We called in a head man. One of the best neurosurgeons in the area. He had to do some drilling to relieve the pressure.”
Again, he shook his head, effectively relaying his own sense of inadequacy when faced with the fragility of the human condition. “We’ll be watching him, but I don’t look for him to come around for a few hours. Even then it’ll be a little soon to tell what kind of damage we’re dealing with.
“I’m sorry,” he added, looking from one stunned face to the other. “The next twenty-four hours should tell the tale. We’ll run some brain scans then and have a clearer picture of his overall prognosis.”
“He’ll live?”
Sloan clutched Jesse’s hand in hers as his eyes begged the doctor for the answer he wanted to hear.
“Barring any complications, yes, he’ll live.” He paused, considered, then decided to level with them. “It’s the quality of his life that’s on the line. Again, I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more.”
“He’ll be able to ride again, right, Doc?”
This from a desperate Yancy, who needed something to hang on to.
The doctor smiled sadly. “Let’s just worry about him walking first,” he said ominously, and left the room.
Numbed by the implication of the doctor’s words, the four of them stood helplessly, their eyes fixed on the door as if they were certain he would poke his head back in and say it was all a big mistake. That he’d been talking about the wrong patient. That D U. was going to be just fine.
Sloan finally roused herself. “Does... does he have family? Someone we should call?”
“He’s got a sister,” Jesse said woodenly. “I called her after we got him here. She’s on her way from Sheridan.”
Yancy and Jerome walked disconsolately back to their coffee, looking helpless and scared.
“Why don’t you two go on back to the motel?” she suggested gently. “Jesse and I will stay. If we hear anything, we’ll give you a call.”
With little protest, they gave her the name of the motel where they were staying and their room number, then stoically left them alone.
And then, together, they waited. And prayed. And let the silence speak of their fears and their hopes and their helplessness.
They finally let them in to see D.U. at three o’clock that morning. It was not a reassuring sight although
the ICU nurse insisted that his vital signs were stable and that under the circumstances, he was doing well.
Computerized monitors tracked his blood pressure and heart rate. IVs and tubes dripped fluids and antibiotics and morphine into his body. He looked small and vulnerable lying there, his head swaddled in a gauze bandage that Jesse prayed was padded with cotton rather than believe his head was that badly swollen.
Both eyes were mere slits. Black-and-blue discoloration had already set in around the stitches and abrasions.
With his heart in his throat, Jesse carefully approached the hospital bed, afraid that the slightest movement might jar D.U., the slightest sound would cause him pain.
“Hey, pardner,” he whispered, bending close to his ear. “You picked a helluva way to get a little attention.”
A slight stirring signaled that he’d been heard. Relief jockeyed with fear that even that small movement would tax him too much.
Straining to keep his voice light when he felt as if he was being ripped to shreds inside, Jesse placed a hand lightly on D.U.’s arm. “There’s good news,” he said, forcing that same casual tone, “they did so much work on that ugly mug of yours, we may have to start calling you fancy face.”
When one corner of D.U.’s poor swollen mouth twitched in response, it was all Jesse could do to keep from breaking down and bawling with relief.
“I’m not sure how I feel about the competition,” he added, hardly recognizing his own voice, it was strung so tight with emotion. “Reckon we’ll cross that creek when we come to it, though.”
Jesse took his first full breath since he’d seen him fall when a valiantly rasped, “Reckon,” wheezed from D.U.’s mangled hps.
Sloan stood at the door, watching the exchange with tears swimming in her eyes and clogging her throat. When the ICU nurse gently reminded Jesse that they needed to keep this short, he stepped back from the bed with a promise that he’d be back tomorrow.
Not until D.U.’s sister arrived a half hour later, did they leave, and only then after they’d filled her in on what they knew and instilled as much encouragement as they could muster.