My True Cowboy. Shelley Galloway
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stream of abuse to Jarred for eight hours straight. And though his older brother had acted disappointed that he hadn’t been able to either change the date or get a refund for his vacation in the Mexican Riviera, Cal thought it was basically all talk. More than likely, Jarred was doing everything he could to convince Serena to take even more time off at the library just so they could stay out of sight even longer.
Cal didn’t blame Jarred. Not really. Fact was, their dad was difficult. And, well, a man could only take so much.
The door opened, preventing his dad from continuing his tirade.
Thank the Lord.
In clanged one of those metal carts, with a pair of nurses in tow. “Hello, Mr. Riddell,” the first nurse said, a pretty gal named Rachel. “We’re here to draw some blood.”
His dad crossed his arms protectively over his chest. “The hell you are. You already took blood today.”
“Dad, watch your mouth.”
“All I said was hell.” One eye fixated on Rachel. “Are you offended?”
A shy smile lit her features. “You haven’t managed to offend me yet, Mr. Riddell. Even though you sure have tried.”
His dad turned to him. “See?”
But all Cal saw was that it was only a matter of time before his father alienated half the hospital staff. For some reason, he felt responsible for that.
Fact was, some days he was just really tired of being his father’s keeper. “I’m real sorry, Rachel,” he murmured.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Junior,” she said softly. “He’s nothing I can’t handle.” Then, turning to his father, she raised her voice and held out a hand. “Mr. Riddell, I’m afraid I have my orders. We need more blood. Can you hand me your arm, please?”
To Cal’s embarrassment, his father told her exactly where she could put that needle.
But instead of running away, Rachel grinned and winked. “You’re not scaring me away. I’m still here, Mr. Riddell. And I’m still going to take this blood.”
“My heart’s about to collapse, as it is. Don’t see why—”
Cal looked over at the other nurse. So far, she hadn’t said a word, just stood next to the cart as if she was afraid the thing would roll off without her.
Poor thing. “Dad, enough,” he said. “These nurses need to do their jobs.”
“Heck, I haven’t even gotten started.”
Cal was just about to find a gag for his father, when Rachel turned to him again. “It looks like we’re going to be here for a little while. Why don’t you go take a break.”
“I can stay if you need me.” The only time his father had been a good patient was when he was sedated. Cal liked Rachel, and felt too sorry for the mute one to have her put up with his dad without help.
To his surprise, Rachel’s smile brightened. “Things will be better if you’re gone.”
“Are you sure? Because I can—”
“Cal, you heard the woman. Get out of here!”
“Fine.” Cal walked out just as his father started cursing everyone in the room again. He hesitated for a moment, but continued when he heard Rachel chuckle and his dad settle down.
Obviously that nurse was right. Things were going better without him in the room … perhaps because Rachel was as aware as Cal what his dad’s real problem was.
Plain and simple, his father was scared to death. His years on the rodeo circuit, followed by even more years of hard living and next to no regard for food of any nutritional value had made his arteries plug up. He was due for a bypass at 7:00 a.m. and Dr. Williams had been pretty clear that he was worried about his patient’s blood pressure.
He’d also told Cal that his dad was likely going to need weeks of recuperation and therapy afterward. And a lot of help.
It was a hard pill to swallow for a man who’d lived his life on his own terms. So, to Cal, his father’s mood was understandable. But, boy, was he tough to deal with.
Aimlessly, Cal wandered down the hall and caught the elevator down to the cafeteria. Two dollars bought a cup of coffee and a stale chocolate-chip cookie.
He sat near the window and slumped. What was he going to do if his dad wasn’t okay? He’d been the rock in their lives. The standard to which he and his brothers all tried to measure up. What was he going to do if the old guy didn’t get better?
“Excuse me. Do you mind if we sit here with you?”
Cal looked at the redhead standing in front of him, her hands full of a tray packed with enough food to feed a small village. Next to her stood a little boy about seven. “Why?”
Without waiting any longer, she set her tray on the table. “Because we’re starving and there’s no room anywhere else. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, sitting right down and pulling out a chair for the boy before Cal even had a moment to answer. “I mean, you’ve got this whole table all to yourself.”
The way she was talking, you’d think he was holding up prime retail property. But as Cal looked around, he saw that she had a point. Somehow the place had gotten packed—mostly with uniformed personnel. There wasn’t a spare seat to be found.
That brought him up short. Exactly how long had he been sitting there, looking out the window?
When their eyes met again, she tilted her head to one side. “You really don’t mind, do you?”
He shook his head no but couldn’t help ribbing her a bit. “What would you have done if I said I did?”
“I would’ve moved, of course.”
“Really?”
She smiled, and Cal suddenly became aware of how beautiful her mouth was. “Really. But we wouldn’t have been happy about it, would we, Hank?”
Hank shook his head but didn’t answer. ‘Course, it would have been hard for the kid to do that because there was half a hot dog in the boy’s mouth.
Cal sipped his coffee and grimaced.
“You picked a bad time to get coffee,” she murmured.
“Pardon me?”
She leaned closer, bringing with her the faint scent of gardenias. “It’s three o’clock. New pots are always brewed at five,” she whispered as though she was divulging something top secret. “You got the old stuff.”
Put that way, his drink now tasted worse than ever. “Huh.”
Her pretty green eyes flashed as if he’d said something interesting. “Next time, wait two hours. It’s worth it. I promise.”
He hoped to God there wouldn’t be a next time. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Sure.” She picked up her fork and dug into a plate of baked ziti. “Have you ever had this? It’s great.”
“No.”
“You should. Lucinda—she’s the head chef—she fancies herself to be Italian. She really can make great pasta.”
In spite of himself, he was caught in her conversation. “Fancies herself to be? You mean she’s not?”
She grinned at Hank, who grinned right back as he stuck a straw into his carton of chocolate milk. “Heck, no! She’s Mexican. Grew up in Acapulco.” While he processed that, she turned all dreamy-eyed. “Doesn’t being from Acapulco sound exotic?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Hank blurted. “Lucinda says there’s cliff divers there. Have you ever dived off a cliff?”
“No.”