Every Second Counts

by D. Jackson Leigh

  She started walking again, then realized she must have taken a wrong turn. Why did hospitals have to be a maze of hallways? Every hallway looked the same, but nothing looked familiar. There had to be a nurses’ station around here somewhere.

  She was about to backtrack when a familiar figure brought her up short.

  Skyler was leaning against the wall and talking on her cell phone.

  “No, just a false alarm, Laura. She’s fine. The baby’s fine. I’d feel better, though, if you and Kate would fly back to the States pretty soon. Dr. Nichols says it won’t be long.” Skyler looked up at her. “Thanks. Okay, I’ll tell her. We love you guys, too.” She ended the call and smiled at Bridgette.

  “Is Jess okay?”

  “Yeah. False labor. They’re sending her back home.” Skyler looked harried but happy. She raked her long fingers through her shaggy blond hair. “Damn, I need to get a haircut before the baby comes. What are you doing up here? Did someone get hurt at the game? Did you guys win?”

  She had forgotten that she was still dressed for softball, except for the tennis shoes that had replaced her cleats.

  “The only thing hurt was the other team’s egos,” she said quickly, then grinned. “I pitched my first real no-hitter tonight.”

  “No shit? Congratulations. So, you up here to see a friend?”

  She frowned as her earlier irritation resurfaced. “Actually, one of your friends had an accident at the R&R and I drove her to the ER.”

  Most on Bridgette’s team were women Skyler had grown up with in Cherokee Falls. “Which one?”

  “Marc.”

  “Ryder? We wondered where she’d gone off to. She okay? Did she hurt her leg?”

  “Her leg is fine, but her stupidly hard head was injured.”

  Skyler laughed. “Well, if she fell on her head, she should be okay.”

  Damn it. Was she the only one who recognized how dangerous this could be? “Have you ever had a concussion?” Her scowl must have clued Skyler that she wasn’t amused, because she stopped laughing.

  “Yeah, a couple of times when I was working as a professional rider. Sometimes you were hired to ride a horse only once or twice, so you didn’t get a chance to know it. That always increases the possibility of misreading the cues and taking a tumble.”

  “You still jump horses.” Bridgette’s tone was accusing, but Skyler didn’t take the bait.

  “I do, but I spend most of my time giving lessons and working with the kids now. When I do jump horses, as a trainer, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to get to know the horse before I take it over the jumps.” Skyler glanced toward the hospital-room door next to them. “I have to be more careful now that I’ve got other people depending on me.”

  “So, I guess if you’re single, it’s okay to act like a twenty-eight-year-old juvenile, foolishly taking idiotic chances with your life. What if Marc broke her neck riding those bulls and was paralyzed? Or worse, killed? Does she think nobody would care?”

  “Uh—”

  A nurse rolled a wheelchair up to Skyler, oblivious to the argument she was interrupting. “I’m sure we’ll see you soon, but you can go ahead and take her home tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Skyler said, taking charge of the chair and looking relieved. “Jess is ready. She’s really disappointed it’s not happening tonight, though.” She turned back to Bridgette. “You want to come in and say hey?”

  She looked at her watch. “No. Marc’s waiting for me to give her a ride home. I was just looking for the pharmacy to pick up some acetaminophen for her.”

  “We’ve got plenty at home. If you like, she can go with us since we’re on our way out.”

  “I do have to get up early. That would be great.”

  “No problem.”

  “I didn’t mean to go off on you.” She let out a frustrated breath. “I just get so aggravated with her.” She gave Skyler’s hand a squeeze. “Take care of Jess. Hopefully, I’ll see you two at the auction, if not before.” She started to walk away but turned back. “Oh. They were supposed to give her a shot for nausea while I went to the pharmacy. But she’s been throwing up a lot, so you may want to leave the window down, too, when you drive her home.”

  Bridgette walked briskly to the parking lot without stopping in the ER, where Ryder lay wounded and hurting. Part of her wanted to take Ryder to her loft, to watch over her, to wipe her brow and rub her back while she threw up. A bigger part wanted to run far enough away that she could forget those dark eyes and that dangerous grin.

  *

  Retching over the puke basin had pushed her headache from bad to worse, so Ryder paid little attention when the attractive nurse exposed a lot more of her butt than necessary, took a lot longer than usual to administer the injection, and then slipped her phone number into Ryder’s pocket before she left. Instead, she closed her eyes and sank into the blissful drowsiness the medicine induced.

  Her last thought was of Bridgette as the sounds of the hospital receded.

  She couldn’t really recall what she’d said to make her so mad, but when Bridgette returned, she planned to beg to spend the night at the loft, and hopefully she’d feel well enough to talk it out in the morning. It wasn’t a surefire plan, but it was the best her muddled brain could come up with and she felt reasonably hopeful, right up until the moment Skyler shook her awake.

  “Damn, what happened to your nose? No wonder you were snoring like a freight train.”

  “What? What are you doing here? Where’s Bridgette?”

  “Gone home. She said she has to get up early.”

  Ryder sat up carefully. Her head was fuzzy, but the pounding was only a dull ache and her stomach had settled. “Did she call you?”

  “No. I ran into her down the hall. I told her you could ride with us since we were already here.”

  Everything jumped into sharp focus as she recalled Jessica feeling sick at dinner. “Jess, the baby. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m fine. Just false labor pains.” Jessica was sitting in a wheelchair slightly behind Skyler, looking up at her with concern. “What happened to you?”

  She gingerly felt her nose and wondered how bad it looked. Why did things always go haywire when Bridgette was around? “I was standing on the mechanical bull at R&R and Jo-Jo accidently elbowed the controls.”

  “What the hell were you doing standing on it?”

  Ryder blinked at Skyler, realizing how stupid she sounded. “Don’t remember, exactly,” she lied.

  Skyler shook her head. “Can you walk or should I go find another a wheelchair and somebody to help us?”

  “I can walk.” Ryder slowly stood. She still felt fuzzy, but after a slight wave of dizziness she found her balance.

  “Why don’t you wheel me out while Skyler pulls the car up?” Jessica suggested. “It might help to hold onto the wheelchair.”

  Skyler watched while Ryder gripped the handles and turned the chair toward the door. “You good?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we’ll meet you outside.”

  A quick kiss on Jessica’s cheek and Skyler was gone.

  Ryder wheeled Jessica carefully out of the ER to the curb and squatted next to the chair. “You warm enough?”

  “I’m fine. This baby is like carrying around a furnace. The night air feels good.” Jessica looked at her with affection. “You’re sweet to ask, though.”

  She sat on the curb and pulled her legs up to rest her chin on her knees. She was very, very tired.

  “It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. It seemed bleak to her.

  “Skyler said Bridgette was upset with you. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  Over the weeks that they had exercised together each day, they had become friends. Jessica was a good listener. They would walk laps back and forth in the pool for nearly an hour before Ryder realized Jessica’s gentle questions had coaxed her into revealing more of herself than she’d shared with most. She was wary of that tonight, bec
ause she felt abandoned. It was a festering wound that hadn’t bled since she had changed her name and left town to put the pathetic Marci Ridenhouer behind her.

  “She didn’t even stop by to tell me she was going.” She turned her head away so Jessica couldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes. Marci Ridenhouer might cry, but Marc Ryder didn’t. She swallowed the tightness in her throat.

  “You were probably asleep and she didn’t want to wake you.” Jessica’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “We can talk about it when you’re feeling better, if you want.”

  She nodded, relieved that Jessica wasn’t going to pry. There was nothing to talk about. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Bridgette had said she wouldn’t leave her, but she did.

  “I got blood all over Skyler’s shirt,” she said, to change the subject.

  Jessica patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. She has a drawer full of those shirts. Besides, it’ll come out in the wash.”

  She rested her head on her knees and felt like whatever it was that kept people from caring about her was a stain that would never wash out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “We’re never going to get this done in time. We need help. You’ve unearthed a treasure chest.” Lydia pulled painting after painting from the racks and lined them up against the wall. “It’s true some of them are unfinished or just crap, but there must be at least fifty well worth auctioning.”

  They had already spent three days sorting and appraising the paintings that hung downstairs before Bridgette had led Lydia upstairs to the studio. It was easier to come up with prices on Eleanor’s collection of other artists because they could compare each painting to that artist’s history of sales. But these Eleanor White canvases had never been circulated before.

  “I have no idea how to price them,” Bridgette admitted.

  “I think we should sort them into four groups, setting the base price for the least valuable at ten thousand and the most valuable at fifty thousand.”

  “You don’t think that’s too much?”

  “God, no. You’ll get way more than that. It’s just a starting point for the auctioneer. But if you don’t sell all of them, I can find buyers after the auction. Just the fact that she’s dead and they’ve never been on the market before increases their value.”

  “It’s a pity artists have to die before they’re really respected,” Bridgette said absently.

  “I’d rather have several opinions before I price them, but you haven’t given me much time. I do have a friend who used to appraise for Sotheby’s. I can probably get him down here on short notice.”

  “We don’t have much of a budget to work with, and we’re using most of it for down payments on the catering and the like. Would he be willing to wait until after the auction to get paid?”

  “I can guarantee it.” Lydia held up a large canvas that depicted a field of wildflowers. In the distance, a pensive, dark-haired child sat on a large rock, small and alone among the riot of color. “I can’t believe her granddaughter is donating all of the paintings. This one is amazing.”

  “I think she plans to sell the house. She’s visiting here for several months, but she lives in Dallas.”

  “This is an incredibly generous donation. You must have slept with her or promised your firstborn.”

  Bridgette’s cheeks flushed as she turned away and picked up a canvas, pretending to study it. But she didn’t fool Lydia.

  “Slut! You did sleep with her. What’s she like? Is she as beautiful and creative as Eleanor was?”

  “No. She’s a twenty-eight-year-old juvenile with a stupidly hard head, who takes foolishly idiotic chances.”

  Bridgette whirled toward the husky voice. Ryder was slouched against the doorframe. Despite the purple bruise across the bridge of her nose, she looked lethally sexy in black jeans and a black button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back off her wrists.

  “Isn’t that how you described me to Skyler?”

  “I was angry with you for being careless with yourself.” The throbbing of her pulse wasn’t from anger now, but she’d never admit it to Ryder. Especially not in front of Lydia. “Have you thought about what the doctor said?”

  Ryder shrugged. “I thought about it. Then I forgot it. Just like you forgot me.”

  Her tone and smile bordered on teasing, as though she was accusing Bridgette of leaving her at the mall rather than injured in a hospital bed. But her eyes said it was more.

  “I didn’t forget you. I had to get up early and Skyler offered to take you home. Since you’re staying with them, it didn’t make sense for me to drive you all the way out there.”

  The air between them was thick with tension as they stared each other down. Ryder looked away first, pushing off the doorframe and turning to Lydia, who was watching them carefully. She extended her hand. “I’m Marc Ryder, Eleanor’s granddaughter.”

  Lydia slid her slender hand into Ryder’s. “Lydia Wells. I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said. She cocked her head, then turned the painting she had propped against her leg toward Ryder. “You must be the child in this painting.”

  Ryder shrugged. “Looks like it. I haven’t seen that one before.”

  “You may wish to keep it then.”

  “No. You can sell it with the rest.”

  “That’s very generous, Ms. Ryder.”

  “My friends just call me Ryder.”

  “Then I’d love to count myself among your friends…Ryder.”

  Bridgette had seen Lydia work a seduction before and it usually amused her. This time, it made her grind her teeth. She picked up a painting and shoved it at her. “Where should I put this one?”

  Lydia took the painting but kept her eyes on Ryder. “If you’re free tonight, we could become better friends over dinner.”

  Ryder kissed the back of Lydia’s hand. “I would be flattered, but perhaps another time. I’ve already promised to sit with a very pregnant friend while her partner attends a board meeting tonight.”

  “I suppose you already have a date for the auction, too?”

  “I’m afraid I do.” Ryder turned to Bridgette. “I know you’re busy, but I need a word with you.”

  Bridgette hesitated. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone with Ryder, but she certainly didn’t want to discuss anything personal in front of Lydia. “I’ll walk you out,” she said.

  She was surprised that Ryder kept her distance as they stepped into the living room, fishing a folded paper out of her pocket and handing it over.

  “I wrote down the contact for the cleaning company. They’ll take care of whatever you need, even moving furniture for the auction. They’ll also clean up afterward.” Ryder held up a hand to stop her protest. “It’s a tax deduction.”

  “Thank you.” She had braced for angry words. She wasn’t prepared for Ryder’s all-business conversation. “I’m sorry about Lydia. She’s rather direct.”

  “No harm.” Ryder looked like she wanted to say more, then looked away and continued explaining the contents of the paper. “The second contact is my attorney. He’ll prepare an agreement transferring ownership of the paintings you select and requesting that the endowment be named after Eleanor. She would have liked that.”

  “Of course. I’m sure the board would be happy to comply with that stipulation.”

  “The third number is my real-estate agent’s. If you would please notify her when you have cleared everything from the house that is sold at the auction, she’ll wait until then to list the property for sale. You can turn the house keys over to her.”

  “So you are selling the house?”

  “Yes. In fact, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in town. I promised Skyler I’d stay until the baby is born, but I don’t think Jess will hold out much longer. The auction is still two weeks away and I may be gone by then.”

  She stared at Ryder. “You’re going back to Dallas,” she stated.

  “Yes. That’s where I live.”

  “I thought we ha
d a date for the auction.”

  “We still do if Jess doesn’t have the baby before then. If she does, then I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out.”

  Damn her. “You have a concussion. Your face is still black and blue.”

  “The rodeo-association doctor will have to clear me physically before I can enter events again.”

  Her anger rose, quick and hot. “Do you think they care if you scramble your brains or some bull stomps you in the dirt again?” Her volume increased with each word and she was aware that Lydia had appeared at the top of the stairs, listening.

  Ryder raised a nonchalant eyebrow, her response calm. “Sure, they care. They have to protect their asses against lawsuits.” She walked away, a clear signal that their conversation was over. But when she put her hand on the door, she turned back.

  “What I don’t understand is why it matters to you.” Ryder didn’t wait for her to answer.

  “I don’t know,” Bridgette whispered to the closed door.

  *

  Ryder was just pulling into the equestrian center’s drive when her cell phone rang and she checked the caller. Ross Johnston, her agent.

  “Yeah?”

  “That article on you in the ESPN magazine has generated a lot of interest. When are you coming back to work?”

  It was all about business for Ross, but Ryder appreciated that. She didn’t care to make small talk with him. Unlike Hollywood portrayals of stars and their agents, Ross was not her friend. They didn’t even like each other. He believed riding bulls was men’s work. But he was an excellent contract negotiator and knew how to make money from the novelty of a woman competing in a man’s sport.

  “My leg is good. I’ve been riding, even jumping a bit. It’s sooner than they expected, but I think I can get cleared to compete.”

  “I’ll make that appointment for you and call back.”

  “You don’t think they’ll feel it’s too soon?” She wanted, needed to get back to work.

  “I can take care of that. You’ve got plenty of personal insurance. I’ll draw up a waiver clearing them of any liability if you are re-injured.”