Miracle at Colts Run Cross. Joanna Wayne
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you hear that?” Derrick said. “The announcer said Daddy might not ever play football again.”
Becky grabbed the remote and muted the sound. “They don’t know. They’re not doctors. Most likely Daddy has a bad sprain.”
“Your father’s taken lots of blows and he’s never let one get the best of him yet,” her brother Bart said, trying as Becky had to calm the boys.
“We better get up there and check on him,” David said. “He might need us.”
“You have school tomorrow,” Becky said, quickly squashing that idea.
“We can miss,” the boys protested in unison.
“It’s only half a day,” Derrick said. “A bunch of kids won’t even be there. Ellen Michaels left Saturday to go visit her grandmother in Alabama for Christmas.”
“You have practice for the church Christmas pageant right after school lets out. Mrs. Evans is counting on you.”
Becky knew that missing school in the morning wouldn’t be a problem. They would have been out all week had they not lost so many days during hurricane season.
They’d been lucky and hadn’t received anything but strong winds and excessive rain from two separate storms that had come ashore to the west of them, but if the school board erred, it was always on the side of caution.
Still, if Nick was seriously hurt, the hospital would be no place for the boys. And if he wasn’t, he’d be too preoccupied with getting back in the game to notice.
“You can call Daddy later when he’s feeling better.”
“But you’re going to go to Dallas, aren’t you, Momma? Daddy’s gonna need somebody there with him.”
“I can fly you up in the Cessna,” Langston said, offering his private jet. He’d done that before when Nick had been hurt, once even all the way to Green Bay.
But that was when she and Nick were at least making a stab at the marriage. Things had become really strained between them since the divorce proceedings had officially begun. She doubted he’d want her there now.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m sure Nick’s in good hands.”
“Maybe you should hold off on that decision until after you’ve talked to him,” her mother said.
“Right,” Bart said. “They’ll know a lot more after he’s X-rayed.” The others in the room nodded in agreement.
Becky left the room when the game got back underway. Anxiety had turned to acid in her stomach, and she felt nauseous as she climbed the stairs and went to her private quarters on the second floor of the big house.
Too bad she couldn’t cut off her emotions the way a divorce cut off a marriage, but love had a way of hanging on long after it served any useful purpose. Nick would always be the father of her children, but hopefully one day her love for him would be just a memory.
But she wouldn’t go to Nick, not unless he asked her to, and she was almost certain that wasn’t going to happen. They’d both crossed a line when the divorce papers had been filed. From now on, the only bond between them was their sons.
BECKY CALLED the hospital twice during the hours immediately following Nick’s injury. Once he’d still been in the emergency room. The second time he’d been having X-rays. The only real information she’d received was that he had regained movement in his arms and legs.
Her anxiety level had eased considerably with that bit of news, as had everyone else’s in the family. The boys still wanted to talk to him, but she’d waited until they were getting ready for bed before trying to reach him again.
Hopefully by now the doctors would have finished with the required tests and Nick would feel like talking to them. Regardless, Nick would play down the pain when talking to her and especially when talking to the boys.
That was his way. Say the right things. Keep his true feelings and worries inside him. It was a considerate trait in a father. It was a cop-out for a husband.
And bitterness stunk in a wife. It was time she accepted things the way they were and moved past the resentment.
“Can you connect me to the room of Nick Ridgely?” she asked when the hospital operator answered.
“He’s only taking calls from family members at this time. I’ve been told to tell all other callers that he is resting comfortably and has recovered full movement in his arms and legs.”
Becky had expected that. No doubt the hospital was being bombarded with calls from reporters. “This is his wife.”
“Please wait while I put you through to his room, Mrs. Ridgely.”
A female voice answered, likely a nurse. “Nick Ridgely’s room. If this is a reporter, shame on you for disturbing him.”
“This is Becky Ridgely. I’m calling to check on my husband.”
“Oops, sorry. It’s just that the reporters keep getting through. You don’t know how persistent they can be.”
Actually, she did. “Is Nick able to talk?”
“He can, but the doctor wants him to stay quiet. I can give him a message.”
“I was hoping he could say a word to his sons. They’re really worried about him, and I’m not sure they’ll sleep well unless he tells them he’s okay.”
“He isn’t okay. His arms are burning like crazy.”
This was definitely not a nurse. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Brianna Campbell.”
The name hit like a quick slap to the face. He could have waited until the divorce was final to play hot bachelor. If not for her, then for David and Derrick.
“Do you want to leave a message?”
“Yes, tell Nick he can…” She took a quick breath and swallowed her anger as David returned from the bathroom where he’d been brushing his teeth. “No message.” Saved from sounding like a jealous wench by the timely appearance of her son.
“Okay, I’ll just tell Nick you called, Mrs. Ridgely.”
She heard Nick’s garbled protest in the background.
“Wait. He’s insisting I hand him the phone.”
Nice of him to bother.
“Becky.”
Her name was slurred—no doubt from pain meds. Derrick had joined them as well now, and both boys had climbed into their twin beds.
“The boys are worried about you.”
“Yeah. I knew they would be. I was just waiting to call until I was thinking and talking a bit straighter. Were they watching the game?”
“They always watch your games, Nick.”
“Good boys. I miss them.”
So he always said, but she wasn’t going there with him right now. “How are you?”
“I have the feeling back in my arms and legs. They burned like they were on fire for a bit, but they’re better now. The E.R. doc said that was the neurons firing back up so I figure that’s a good sign.”
“Is there a diagnosis?”
“They think I have a spinal cord contusion. They make it sound serious, but you know doctors. They like complications and two-dollar terms no one else can understand. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t sound it. He was talking so slowly she could have read the newspaper between sentences. “Do you feel like saying good-night to David and Derrick?”
“Sure. Put them on. I need some cheering up.”
That’s