A Baby On His Doorstep. Roz Denny Fox
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at once he heard a commotion in the chute. The bronc he’d drawn to ride today, Diablo Colorado, Spanish for Red Devil, was new to the circuit. Rio had given him a cursory inspection earlier and noted the horse was a big, powerful sorrel gelding. Rio guessed the animal was living up to his name based on the difficulty handlers were having getting him into the chute.
“Don’t envy you this one,” Colton Brooks called down to Rio.
He smiled and acknowledged the warning, although feisty horses weren’t anything new to him. Over the years he’d suffered his share of hard knocks, bruises and even a few broken bones. Probably another reason at thirty-two to hang up his spurs and leave serious competition to the young dudes. Unlike his brother, a hypercompetitive bull rider who reveled in piling up points in his sport to be acclaimed in the professional standings, Rio had been content to seek out smaller venues with fair winnings. Rather than sticking with the PRCA, he figured after today to keep his hand in by joining the RHAA. The Ranch Horse Association of America showcased skills of true cowboys. His twin scoffed at those events, and at the notion of ever returning to the homeplace Ryder called Hicksville Ranch. Thinking about that had Rio grimacing. He loved the Lonesome Road and would be happy to live there until he couldn’t climb aboard a horse anymore.
Tightening his gloves, he resettled his dove-gray Stetson before climbing up to join the handlers who’d finally gotten Diablo into the chute.
Rio sank onto the saddle, then vaulted out again as the horse bucked inside the enclosure and wildly tossed his head. Rio considered asking for a tie line to run from the bit to the cinch. A head-tosser could easily break a rider’s nose, or blacken his eyes. But hearing the crowd cheer and chant his name, and because he alone knew this was his goodbye ride, he decided to ride this devil and give the fans their money’s worth.
Gingerly taking his seat again, Rio wrapped the reins tight, slid his boots into the stirrups, raised his right arm and let out a rebel yell.
The gate slammed open. The sorrel bucked stiff-legged right in the opening. And instead of bolting or bucking into the larger arena, Diablo rose on his hind legs and without warning crashed over backward, crushing Rio between seven hundred fifty pounds of muscled horse and a well-built, steel-reinforced wooden fence that he felt crack around him.
Even as he tried to haul in a deep breath, Rio heard a collective “oh” roar from the crowd. There was a momentary cacophony of curses amid fast-shuffling booted feet, seconds before everything in his world went black.
The strident sound of sirens awakened Rio to the urgent shout of old Doc Kane, a much-appreciated rodeo doctor. Rio tried to ask a question, but pain battering him from all sides seemed to clamp a fist around his voice box.
Doc called for morphine, and before Rio could object he felt the sharp sting of a needle entering his thigh and he was lost in oblivion again.
* * *
RIO OPENED HIS EYES, but didn’t recognize anything around him. He felt weighted down in a sea of white. Odd beeps came from somewhere overhead. Two men, both blurs of ocean blue, bent over him. He tried to move to see around them, but couldn’t seem to do that. He felt his heart begin to pound as panic set in.
“Dr. Layton, he’s awake.” The figure at Rio’s left shined a bright penlight in each of his eyes.
Blinking, Rio attempted to sit up. A heavy hand pressed him down. Excruciating pain followed. Enough to have him gritting his teeth.
“Settle down, son. I’m Arthur Layton, chief of general surgery at City Hospital. This is Dr. Mason, our surgical resident. A horse fell on you at the rodeo. You’re not long out of surgery and still in pretty bad shape.”
“Is the horse okay?” Rio croaked. He began to remember bits and pieces, like seeing the chute open, feeling Diablo rear right before something went terribly wrong.
“You’re worried about the horse?” The surgery chief snorted. “Worry about yourself, Mr. McNabb. I’m afraid your rodeo days are over. You broke your clavicle, cracked two thoracic vertebrae we may still later need to stabilize. You have a fractured left wrist and badly sprained right ankle. Oh, and there was the pneumothorax we hope stays fixed.”
Surfacing through the pain, Rio licked dry lips. “A pneumo what? What is that?”
“Collapsed lung,” the resident supplied.
The older doctor unwound his stethoscope, listened to Rio’s chest, then typed on his computer. “We inserted a chest tube to reinflate your left lung. It still sounds good. We’ll keep a close eye on it, though. I’ve ordered pain meds as needed. With luck, by next week we can move you from ICU into a ward.”
“I can’t stay here,” Rio said. “I’ve gotta get to my ranch.” For one thing, he was seeing dollar signs for all this surgery stuff.
Dr. Layton’s voice gentled. “According to some of our nurses you’re famous. I know performing in the rodeos makes you tough, but I can’t release you until you’re able to get up and around. You don’t have a fractured skull, but you shook your brain.”
“Famous? Not me. They must mean my twin, the bull-riding champion.” Rio tried again to scoot up in bed, but yelped when pain gripped him.
Scrolling through Rio’s computer chart, Layton frowned. “I figured you’d have someone at your ranch to cook and clean. But I see the last time you were seen here for a concussion you signed yourself out against staff’s advice. This states you’re single. If that’s still the case, who’ll care for you at home?”
“I’ll take care of myself,” Rio growled. “Health insurance companies don’t like guys in my line of work. Paying my bills depends on me getting home to help my only ranch hand ready our colts and fillies to sell.”
The doctor shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, closing out the document and tapping the hand Rio didn’t have in a cast. “You’re in serious shape, son. My best estimate is you’ll be six months recovering to a point where you can take care of your ranch. From here you’ll go to a rehabilitation facility where you’ll have therapy to regain strength.”
Rio tried to shake his head but was stopped by the tight neck collar. Clenching his jaw, he said, “No. Rehab isn’t an option. Where’s my cell phone? I need to call JJ, my ranch hand, to collect my pickup and camper from the rodeo grounds. I left my dog, Tag, in the unit while I went off to ride. JJ can look after our horses, but running the ranch is my responsibility.” He managed to gesture with the hand not in a cast, but discovered that arm was tangled up with IV lines.
“I don’t think you get it, McNabb. For a while you’re going to require assistance getting in and out of bed, to and from the toilet and shower, and fixing food. Maybe Lola Vickers can come out of retirement to take on a private duty nursing assignment,” the doctor mused aloud.
The resident interrupted. “This morning I noticed Binney Taylor on the ER roster. Must mean she finished her private duty job for Bob Foster’s wife.”
“Binney would see he keeps his braces and casts from getting wet. I suppose she can cook or she wouldn’t have lasted caring for Raenell Foster. Is Binney strong enough to keep this guy from falling and taking her down with him? It’ll be some time before he regains good balance. I still say rehab’s the best place for him.”
Rio scowled. “I’m not going to any damned rehab. You’re saying I could get a nurse to come out to the ranch?”
“Yes. A private duty nurse boards on-site for a set amount of time. Not cheap, but may be less expensive than the cost of being in rehab. A home nurse can handle initial physical therapy and see that you get to follow-up appointments here.”
The resident went to a cabinet, opened a drawer and pulled out a business card he passed to the surgeon. “You could give Binney a call and see if she’s available.”
Layton took out his phone. He punched in a number then handed Rio the card. “Binney, Dr. Layton at City General,” he said into the phone.