Roots in Texas

by K. N. Casper

  “When can I lope?” Brad asked.

  “Think you’re ready today?”

  “Yes!” Brad held up a fist in triumph.

  “This first time, I want you to hold on to the reins with your right hand, as usual, and the horn with your left.”

  “I don’t have to—”

  “Hold it with your left,” Ethan insisted, “till you get used to the rhythm of the horse. I’ll tell you when to let go.”

  Even at nine the male instinct to bull his way through a situation was strong. Ethan wasn’t surprised by the initial look of terror on the boy’s face when the big horse broke into a controlled gallop. In truth, Joker wasn’t moving much faster than at an extended trot, but the impression for the inexperienced was of much greater speed and a lack of control. To Brad’s credit, he didn’t panic, though he hung on to the saddle horn. It took him a second or two to register Ethan’s command to sit deeper in the saddle. Once he did, the rocking-horse rhythm took over and a smile spread across the boy’s face.

  Ethan looked over at Heather. “Would you like to try?”

  “Y-Yes. I guess so.” She was scared.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t think you’re ready.”

  “Maybe I’ll wait for Megan, so she can show me.”

  Ethan suppressed a smile. Waiting for her friend was an excuse, but Heather often looked to Megan for leadership. To her, Brad was different. He was older, and he was, after all, a boy.

  Forty-five minutes later, Carter was leading the last of the geldings back to the pasture and the farrier was cooling his small gas-fired forge when Boyd waved goodbye and drove off with the children to take them home.

  Ethan retreated to the house and dialed Kayla’s number. The answering machine picked up. Maybe she was just busy or outside. Or the phone was turned off so Megan could sleep. Or she had the TV on too loud. He went back to his chores but returned a little while later and dialed again. This time Boyd answered.

  “I called a few minutes ago, but—”

  “I just walked in.” Boyd sounded winded. “They’re not here.”

  “What do you mean, not there?”

  “Kayla left a note. She had to take Megan to the clinic.”

  “Give me a minute to clean up, and I’ll pick you up in ten. We’ll go into town together.” Ethan hung up, only then realizing his hand was shaking.

  * * *

  KAYLA KEPT BITING HER LIP. Her hands were squeezing the steering wheel so hard, her fingers hurt.

  “We’re almost there,” she said, trying desperately to sound calm and assuring.

  Megan, strapped into the seat beside her, was making horrible sucking sounds as she inhaled. Her daughter was struggling for breath, and all Kayla could do was sit there and keep her foot from stomping the gas pedal to the floor. She was already driving over the speed limit. Fortunately this stretch of road was long and straight.

  She’d checked out the small clinic in town when they’d first arrived, knowing eventually she’d have to go there for something.

  Her mind raced, trying to sort through the information she’d received on that brief visit. A physician’s assistant, not a doctor, ran the place. What was her name? Kristin something. She wanted to say Gallagher, but that was the senator’s name, so that couldn’t be right. There was a doctor...Louise Hernandez...who came on Wednesdays from San Antonio. Today was Friday, which meant she wouldn’t be there. The P.A. had been very nice and seemed quite competent, but this wasn’t a broken arm or sprained knee. Asthma was life threatening. There wasn’t much time to evaluate, just act.

  Kayla wasn’t doing herself any good focusing on the negative as she zipped into town, but it was hard to think positive when her child, the most precious thing in the world to her, was fighting for every breath.

  She rolled into Homestead on Bluebonnet Street. The town square with its ornate old courthouse was on her left. On her right, a few cars were parked diagonally in front of the beauty salon and the saddle shop. She drove past the newspaper office. Pickups filled the spaces in front of the post office and hardware store. At Main, she swung sharply left and pulled into an empty spot in front of the clinic. Megan’s pale skin was turning blue around the mouth.

  “We’re there, honey. It’ll just be a minute now.”

  Kayla jumped out of the Toyota and called out, “I need help!” She ran around the hood of the car. Yanking open the passenger door, she unbuckled Megan and was trying to scoop her up when someone touched her back, making her involuntarily flinch. Turning her head, she saw a bald man in a white smock. He motioned her aside, bent and picked the child up as if she was no heavier than a tea bag and set her gently in the wheelchair he’d brought out.

  “What’s the problem?” asked the small middle-aged woman who was holding the front door as he maneuvered up the ramp.

  “Severe asthma attack,” Kayla explained.

  “Any idea what brought it on?”

  “She’s been having problems for the past week, but until now her inhaler and nebulizer kept it under control. I figured it was just spring pollen.”

  “Could be,” the woman said as they moved quickly into an examining room. She was wearing a green smock over loose chinos. Kayla looked at her embroidered name but couldn’t decipher it.

  The woman caught her eye. “Call me Ski. It’s a lot easier to pronounce than Mszeslowski, even for me. I’m a P.A. That’s Max Zimmerman. He’s a nurse,” she added, nodding to the big man with a shaved head and several tattoos on his brawny arms.

  Max lifted Megan onto the examining table with ease. Megan’s breathing was agonizingly painful.

  Ski listened to Megan’s heart and lungs through her stethoscope while the nurse put a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “How long has she been this way?”

  “I gave her a nebulizer treatment about two hours ago. She seemed to improve. She was tired but alert. Then about half an hour ago she became very lethargic. I was afraid she’d stopped breathing altogether, so I used the epi-pen, but it didn’t seem to do much good. I got her here as fast as I could. I would have—”

  “BP 110 over 65,” Max announced.

  The woman stuck a digital thermometer in Megan’s ear. Kayla wasn’t sure, but she thought it read 97.8. Or maybe it was 98.7. Didn’t matter. Either way, she wasn’t running a fever. One less thing to worry about.

  The nurse affixed another cuff to Megan’s left arm and plugged the lead into a machine he’d pulled over. Readings appeared instantly.

  Ski patted Kayla’s hand. “You did the right thing. Don’t worry. We’re going to take good care of her. Are you aware of any allergies she has to medications?”

  “No,” Kayla responded, staring as her child worked so hard to breath. Why don’t you hurry up? She wanted to scream.

  “Max, I’ll draw blood so we can check blood gasses, while you prepare the nebulizer. Then I’ll give her a shot of Solu-Medrol.”

  Kayla stood by as the two worked with smooth efficiency in the close confines of the small examining room, each keeping out of the other’s way. Ski inserted a needle in the vein of Megan’s wrist. The girl didn’t even flinch, maybe because it was done so expertly, but it was equally likely that Megan simply didn’t have the energy to respond. Every ounce of her strength was being consumed by the effort to breathe.

  Max moved in a positive-pressure machine and attached a bottle of abuterol to the long plastic tube leading to the face mask. Putting the vial of blood aside, Ski filled a syringe and injected Megan in the vein near her left elbow.

  “This is a higher dose of epinephrine to open the airways. It should do the trick in a minute,” she said.

  Kayla shivered at the realization that this was trial and error. She wanted a cure now, this minute, not experiments.

  “Kayla?” She heard a man’s voice from the outer room.

  “Dad?”

  Ski threw back the curtain. Ethan was standing beside her father. Both men looked terrified. He... They were here to suppo
rt her. She wasn’t alone.

  “We came as soon as I found your note.” Boyd stared at his granddaughter, who was barely awake.

  Ethan looked at the woman attending the girl. “Where’s Kristin?” he asked.

  “At an in-service training conference in Houston,” the P.A. answered. “I’m Ski, her relief.”

  He nodded toward the patient. “How is she?”

  “She’s never had an attack this severe.” Kayla’s eyes were glued to her daughter, who continued to work for each breath.

  “I’m Max.” The nurse gently fitted the oxygen mask over Megan’s nose and mouth.

  There were more mumbled introductions all around and everyone stood watching the child on the examining table.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Ethan finally asked, voicing Kayla’s fear that her little girl might not be.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until Ethan put his arm around her. She collapsed against him. He smelled of soap, clean skin and fresh deodorant, and she realized he must have showered and changed clothes before coming here.

  Kayla saw Max give the P.A. an inquiring look.

  “Her breathing has eased up a little, but she’s not responding as quickly as I’d hoped,” Ski acknowledged calmly. “I’m going to give her a steroid shot while Max calls Dr. Hernandez. Louise may want us to bring Megan to the medical center in San Antonio, where they have more elaborate facilities.”

  “It’ll take us at least thirty minutes to get there,” Ethan said. “Closer to forty-five if we run into heavy traffic.”

  “Dr. Hernandez can order their medevac chopper to pick her up here. We use the parking lot in back as our helipad. Max, would you call her now, please?”

  “Hurry,” Kayla begged.

  The burly nurse slipped out of the crowded room. Everyone stared at Megan as Kayla stood at her side, gently brushing her hair with her hand. They could hear Max talking on the phone outside in the reception area, the words indistinct, but the tone disturbing.

  He stepped back into the room two minutes later, his expression not encouraging.

  “What is it?” Kayla cried out.

  For a moment the only sound in the room was the harsh, tortured wheezing of the semi-conscious girl on the examining table.

  “The helicopter isn’t available,” Max said. “There’s been a multicar pileup on the interstate. It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two, before they can get here.”

  “They’ve got to come now,” Kayla nearly screamed.

  Ethan gathered her in his arms.

  “We can drive her there faster,” Boyd declared and shifted, obviously prepared to go.

  “The accident has the intersection of I-10 and Loop 1610 blocked up for miles in all directions,” Max countered. “You’d have to drive at least sixty miles around it and approach the medical center from the other side. That would extend the trip to more like two hours, assuming access from the other side is open.”

  “What are we going to do?” Boyd asked.

  Kayla collapsed into Ethan’s embrace. “We have to do something. We can’t just stand here. Please, please.” Don’t let my little girl die.

  * * *

  IMAGES FLASHED before Ethan’s eyes. His sister’s last breath, the sight of his mother reduced to hysteria, then retreating into impenetrable silence, only to fade away in her sleep a year later.

  He couldn’t bear to see Kayla lose her only child. He wasn’t sure he could survive another death. There’d been so many.

  “Give me two minutes.” He left the room.

  He’d seen Clint Gallagher’s helicopter flying the perimeter of his ranch when he and Boyd were pulling away from Stony Hill. If there was anyone he hated, it was the owner of the Four Aces Ranch. The state senator who’d used his power to destroy the KC Enterprises consortium and ultimately drive his father to suicide. But personal enmity meant nothing now. Ethan would kiss Gallagher’s feet rather than see Megan die.

  Last fall Ethan had trained a wild mustang for Ramiro Sanchez, a ranch hand on the Four Aces, a task the old caballero had considered impossible. Taking a chance that Sanchez could help, he punched in the number he still had in his cell phone directory.

  Sanchez answered on the first ring. “Yo.”

  “Ramiro, this is Ethan Ritter.”

  “Eh, mi amigo—”

  Ethan cut him off and explained the situation, that there was a girl at the clinic in Homestead who would die—actually saying the word scared him to death—unless she was transported to San Antonio immediately, but that the medevac helicopter was tied up.

  “I saw the senator’s chopper flying a few minutes ago. I need to ask him...beg him to come and get her and fly her down to the hospital in San Antonio.”

  Sanchez didn’t hesitate. “Hang on. I’m putting you on hold, but don’t hang up.” The line clicked and went silent.

  Ethan’s stomach burned. His legs felt weak. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, beaded his forehead and stung his eyes. He tried to rub it away but to no avail. His hands, too, were wet.

  The next sound in his ear was loud, disorienting. A whop-whop thudding in a droning background of static. Then he heard a voice.

  “Ritter, what the blazes is going on?” The great man himself. Sanchez had patched him through to the chopper.

  “Senator, there’s a little girl here in the Homestead clinic who’s going to die unless she gets to the San Antonio Medical Center immediately. The medevac chopper’s tied up because of a pileup on the interstate, and the crash site has road access from here completely blocked. Your helicopter is her only hope.”

  There was a pause, and then he heard a different voice. “Ethan, this is Travis.” Gallagher’s youngest son. “Where can we land?”

  Ethan felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. “The parking lot behind the clinic.”

  The old man came on again, barking out orders. “Make sure it’s clear, Ritter. Push cars out of the way. Do whatever you have to so we can get in and get out. We’ll be there in three minutes.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He heard Gallagher giving his son directions before the connection went dead.

  Galvanized, despite the painful lump in his throat, Ethan ran back to the others. “Get Megan ready to transfer right away. Gallagher’s chopper will be here in three minutes.” He saw the astonishment in everyone’s faces. He turned to Boyd.

  “We need to clear the parking lot behind us. I’ll push them out of the way with my truck if I have to.”

  “My car’s back there.” Max dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a key ring and tossed it to Ethan, who caught it one-handed.

  “Mine, too,” Ski said. “Keys are in my purse in the bottom right-hand drawer under the counter in the reception area.”

  “You move hers,” Ethan told Boyd. “I’ll move Max’s.”

  “I need to go with Megan,” Kayla insisted.

  “I don’t know if there’ll be room. It’s not a real big chopper,” Ethan told her. “If he can only take one passenger, I think it should be Ski.” He looked at the P.A.

  She nodded. “Max, get a portable oxygen bottle. We’ll put her on that for the trip. Also, I’ll take an intubation kit just in case.”

  “It’s going to be okay, baby.” Tears were streaming down Kayla’s face as she stroked Megan’s forehead. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Megan, straining for each breath, was exhausted by the effort. Her eyes were open and staring.

  As Ski packed an emergency bag and Max changed the air supply from the machine to a small oxygen bottle, which he strapped between her legs, Boyd and Ethan moved the vehicles. Ethan hadn’t even turned off the engine of Max’s car when he heard the beat of helicopter blades.

  The parking lot was paved but dusty, a fact that became patently evident the moment the whirlybird began its descent. Shielding his eyes from the blast of flying dirt, Ethan approached the aircraft as the door on the right swung open.

&
nbsp; “Where is she?” Gallagher growled.

  The back door of the clinic opened and the gurney rolled toward them.

  “Thank you for doing this, Senator,” Ethan said.

  “I can take one person with her. Who’s going?”

  “The P.A.”

  Kayla stood at the edge of the pavement gripping her father’s arm as Ethan and the nurse lifted the nearly unconscious child into the cabin of the chopper. Ski scrambled in behind her.

  A second later, the door closed and the whine of the engine rose to a high-pitched scream. The helicopter lifted off.

  Kayla’s tearstained face was filthy from the dirt kicked up in the rotor wash. Looking as if he’d been poleaxed, Boyd clung to his daughter. It would be hard to say who was consoling whom.

  “I need to be with her,” Kayla moaned.

  Ethan raced to the back door. “We’ll take my truck.”

  * * *

  WASHING HER FACE and hands helped, but only marginally. Kayla’s stomach ached. Her head throbbed. Her chest felt as if a vise were squeezing it. As determined as she was to go to San Antonio, she wasn’t sure her legs would carry her out of the restroom. Inhaling deeply, she straightened and joined the others in the waiting room of the small country clinic.

  “Brewed a fresh pot of coffee.” Max handed Ethan a thermos, probably his own. He offered Boyd a paper sack. “You’ve got cups, cream and sugar packets, stirrers and napkins in here.”

  “Thank you,” the older man said, his voice a bit wobbly.

  Max turned to Kayla. “Megan’s in good hands. Ski’s the best. Your daughter will be fine.”

  Kayla gave him a hug. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Let’s move,” Ethan urged.

  The image of Megan as she was being lifted into the chopper crowded Kayla’s mind. Turning abruptly, she crossed to the door her father was holding open and strode outside.

  Ethan had pulled up in front of the building, taking up two parking spaces, not that it made any difference. There was no one around. Homestead didn’t have a traffic light, much less a traffic jam. What few businesses were still operating around the town square had closed half an hour ago, and the people in them departed for the day.