An Accidental Hero (17 page)

“One thing’s worse.”

She didn’t know him well enough yet to interpret what that hard-edged note in his voice meant. It went against her better judgment to ask, but she did, anyway. “What’s worse?”

“A person who blames God for what’s wrong with her life. ’Specially a person who loves Him with all her heart, a person who misses having Him in her life.”

On the heels of a deep breath, Cammi shook her head. “And I suppose that ‘person’ would be me.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “If the shoe fits,” he said nonchalantly.

What riled her most was that Reid had hit the old nail square on its head. She
did
miss having the Lord to turn to, and she
did
love Him with all her heart. But how could this cowboy who seemed estranged from the Father know a thing like that?

“It’s just something to chew on,” he added, winking, “when you’re finished eating this fantastic meal, that is.”

She
would
think about everything he’d said, the very first moment she had to herself. And Cammi intended to square things with the Almighty. She smiled at him. “You’re very full of yourself, aren’t you.”

And waving his fork like a white flag, Reid smiled right back. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “I was more’n happy to help.”

“Let’s see if you still feel that way when it comes time to clean up these dishes,” she said, giving his elbow a playful shove.

It had taken nearly half an hour after they’d cleaned up the kitchen to convince Reid he could go home.
The only reason he’d agreed was that she’d dialed the barn and asked Lily to come up to the house. Once he’d left, it took another half hour to assure her sister the danger of concussion had passed.

Now, as the first purple rays of morning began to shimmer outside the family room’s French doors, Cammi continued to toss and turn, unable to put what Reid had said about God out of her mind. About the time the mantel clock struck four, she’d given up on sleep. Blaming the heavy meal for her fidgeting worked for only a little while.

Cammi knew well the reason for her restlessness, knew the way to calm it wasn’t with TV or a fashion magazine.

She grabbed her mother’s Bible from the bookshelf beside the fireplace and selected a verse in exactly the way her mother had taught her, letting the Good Book fall open to a random page.
“Let the Lord Jesus show you what He wants to teach you today,”
her mama would say.

Closing her eyes, her mother’s well-manicured hand would guide her little girl’s pointer finger, drawing circles in the air and getting closer and closer until it came to rest on a gilt-edged page. Tonight, Cammi’s random selection was Isaiah 44:22.

“‘I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions,”’ Cammi whispered, “‘and, as a cloud, thy sins; return to me; for I have redeemed thee.”’

Perfect, Cammi thought, smiling. It reminded her of something she’d pushed aside: that the Father understands and forgives and loves His children…even when they behave like spoiled brats. She’d made a
lot of mistakes these past months. Life-altering mistakes, the biggest of which had been blaming God for the tragedies she’d suffered. None as large and grievous as feeling responsible for her mother’s accident.

As a twelve year old, it made perfect sense to blame herself; as Cammi matured, common sense told her it wasn’t her fault that a grown woman had put her life at risk for something as frivolous as a pretty dress, especially not a married woman with four young daughters.

Now that Cammi allowed herself to reflect on the true circumstances that led her mother to drive out into the rain that night, self-recrimination melted away. And for the first time since her mother’s death, Cammi finally felt free, forgiven, blameless. It felt so good, being “right” with the Lord, that tears filled her eyes. Humbled and grateful, she bowed her head and prayed, knowing as she did that if it hadn’t been for Reid’s gentle persuasion, she might not have turned to the Good Book tonight.

Lord Jesus, thank You for sending a hero in cowboy boots to show me the way back Home.

Later, she’d call and thank him. Cammi snuggled into the couch and pulled the afghan over her. Reid’s manly scent still clung to it, and she closed her eyes and breathed it in. The serenity it inspired was almost as reassuring as Reid’s tender embrace.

Almost…

Cammi eased into drowsiness. The reservations she’d had about the right or wrong of a future with Reid faded. She had the Lord’s approval, right? Why
else
would He have chosen Reid as His messenger?

Someday, Reid thought as he opened one eye, he’d put a muzzle on that loud-mouthed rooster. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the still-black ceiling.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and yawned. Then, padding on bare feet across the hand-knotted braid rug, he scratched his chin, shoved the hair off his forehead, rubbed his eyes. Grabbing a towel from the cabinet under the sink, he frowned, remembering the way Cammi had sent him home.

Oh, she’d been nice enough. Reid didn’t think she had it in her to be anything
but.
Smiling nervously, she’d clasped her tiny hands in front of her chest and apologized, four or five times, for behaving like a—what had she called herself?—a dim-witted little twit who didn’t know her own mind.

He slid open the glass shower door just enough to reach the faucets and wiggle his fingers under the spray. Maybe he
had
met her only a few days ago, but in that time they’d spent countless hours together. Reid had learned a lot about her. She knew her mind better than anyone he could name. So all that hemming and hawing had been to spare his feelings, to salve his ego.

He stood at the window and parted the curtains. The tidy backyard was visible because of the spotlight he’d hooked up months ago so Martina could keep an eye on her rabbit hutch. The last of her summer flowers bobbed on the chilly morning breeze.

Movement off to the left caught his eye, and Reid leaned in for a better look. Steam from the shower had begun to fog the glass, so he used the outside of his fist to clear a saucer-size peephole. Before he
could determine what had parted the grass in a three-inch wide swath, the window steamed up again. Quickly, he squeegeed it clean once more, thinking that no field mouse he’d ever seen could do that. Only one of God’s critters could leave a trail like that, and it had fangs at one end and a rattle at the other.

Just yesterday, one of the hands said he’d found a nest of rattlesnakes in the pit that once housed the barn’s old well pump.

It was rare for a rattler to hole up so near human activity, rarer still to see one stick its head outside at this time of day. Unable to survive any extremes of temperature, it had to be careful about when to hunt for food; early morning in October wasn’t the warmest part of the day. Maybe a hare had scurried by—too tempting a treat to pass up, even in the chill of predawn.

Rattlers were common in this part of Texas, and Reid and Billy had exterminated their fair share of the potentially deadly snakes over the years. Soon as he’d had his shower, he’d grab the shotgun and a shovel and get rid of this bunch, too. They were a threat to the livestock and the ranch hands alike.

“What could it hurt?” Billy was asking Martina when Reid walked through the back door. She didn’t have a chance to answer, because the man aimed another question, this one at Reid. “What was all the hollerin’ and shootin’ about, son?”

“Rattlers,” Reid said evenly. “One of the new boys found a nest of ’em out back.” He hung up his jacket and headed for the sink. “We got ’em taken care of,” he added, washing his hands.

“Oh. Is that all. Well, good. Did you get ’em all?”

“Yeah, I believe we did. Didn’t notice any of them slitherin’ off, anyway.”

“Well,” Billy repeated, “good.” Attention on his wife once more, he picked up where he’d left off: “It’s warmer than usual outside. When am I going to have another chance to sit in the sunshine?”

Martina’s stern expression told Reid that whatever Billy had requested didn’t set well with her. “What’s this crusty ol’ pest want?” he asked, joining them at the table. “A day at the beach?”

Fist propped on her hip, she shook her head. “He wants me to set the chaise lounge out in the yard so he can—” she rolled her eyes “—‘catch some rays.”’ Shaking her head, she grinned at her husband. “Honestly. Sometimes you sound like a teenager.”

The three shared a moment of lighthearted laughter before Reid promised Martina he’d set up the lawn chair, get Billy comfortable and check on him every fifteen minutes or so.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, fingertip tapping her chin, “I do have housework to do….”

Billy groaned. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand you.”

Neither Reid nor Martina commented, because both knew Billy wouldn’t live to see his sixtieth birthday, let alone his hundredth.

“I might be shiftless right now, but I set aside some money in my day. Why don’t you hire someone to do the dusting and vacuuming for you?”

“Because I’m way too finicky” was her explanation.

But Reid knew better. She’d always taken pride in
creating a cozy home for her man, and now, more than ever, she needed something to focus on besides Billy’s illness, something to do other than hover over him. A dozen times in these past few months, he’d caught her standing alone in a room, eyes closed and fingertips pressed to her lips, as if praying for busy-work.

Reid ended the tense moment by clapping his hands together. “So, it’s all set, then. First thing after lunch, I’ll dust off the old lawn chair and—”

“Why after lunch? Why not now?”

“Because, dear, impatient Billy,” Martina said, patting his hand, “it’ll make your day less boring that way. Besides, the sun won’t be—”

Scowling, he snatched his hand back. “Don’t take that tone with me, woman. I’m not totally addle-brained and helpless…
yet!
”

Martina’s dark eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Ever since we found out about this confounded death sentence, you’ve been walking on eggshells, treating me like I’m made of spun glass. Well, I’m tired of it, do you hear? Tired of being made to feel like a useless old—”

She ran from the room, one hand over her mouth, the other trying to keep them from seeing her tears.

Reid helped himself to a spoonful of oatmeal. “You have about as much tact as a charging rhinoceros…and I don’t mean one with a credit card, either.”

Billy’s rasping sigh echoed in the big, country kitchen. “I know, I know. I’d slap myself in the head—if I could make my arm work…. Maybe one of you can do it for me.”

Reid saw the twinkle in Billy’s eye and knew the
storm had passed. “Nobody wants to slap you in the head.” He winked. “Nice swift kick to the backside might be in order, though.”

Billy chuckled. “Help this old fool get to his easy chair, will you, son?”

It was heartbreaking to hear the dreary note of acceptance in Billy’s voice, to watch this once hale and hearty rancher wither away like Martina’s summer flowers.
If God is merciful,
Reid thought yet again, lifting Billy from the chair,
He’ll take Billy quick, so he won’t suffer.
Because the damage ALS was doing to the man’s ego was far worse than what it was doing to his body.

Sated after a hot, nourishing lunch, Billy lay back on the blue-and-white webbed aluminum chaise longue.

Within easy reach on a folding tray beside the chair, Martina had set a battery-operated radio to his favorite country-and-western station. She’d put a tall tumbler of iced tea and a plate of homemade cookies on a blue-striped dish towel, and in his lap, several favorite fishing magazines.

After covering him with an old quilt, she’d insisted he protect his head from the sun, and plopped his battered Texas Rangers baseball cap onto his balding dome. Her final touch was a pair of wraparound sunglasses she’d dug out of his pickup’s glove box.

Man couldn’t ask for much more, Billy thought, smiling to himself.
Well, a man could ask for a long, healthy life.
But short of a miracle, that wasn’t going to happen.

He wouldn’t mind the whole dying thing so much
if it didn’t mean leaving Martina. Seeing as they’d never had children of their own, the idea of her being alone scared him a whole heap more than meeting his Maker. Because didn’t the Good Book say that every physical ailment a man brought into Paradise would disappear in the twinkling of an eye? Or something along those lines, anyway.

After more than half a century of living the hard rancher’s life, using both brain and brawn had grown routine. So routine he’d more or less taken for granted that if he wanted to heft a hay bale or add a row of numbers in the Rockin’ C ledger book, he could, and with very little effort, at that. But these past few months, as the disease ate away at his pride, his dignity, his manhood, he’d learned to appreciate the smallest things, like being able to pick up a potato chip and put it into his mouth, chew it and swallow it.

Wouldn’t be long, now, he knew, before Martina was forced to stick him in one of those old fogey homes, where they’d turn him into a pincushion, running tubes every which-way.

Billy sighed and shook his head. He’d made up his mind to enjoy this day as if it were his last, because according to the weather report, it might well be the final warm day of the season.

Sunshine beat down, warming him to the core, as Willie Nelson crooned in harmony with that tenor fella from the opera. Birds chirped in a nearby tree, and the quiet hum of Martina’s vacuum cleaner whirred from the house—upstairs back bedroom, he guessed.

All was right with his world.

At least for now.

Thoroughly content, he closed his eyes and relaxed completely, let his arm slide off the chair until his knuckles rested among sun-warmed blades of grass. A fishing magazine slipped from the stack on his lap, but he never noticed, and it landed with a quiet
slap
beside his hand.

Billy had no way of knowing that one rattler had escaped near death this morning as Reid and the ranch hands invaded its nest. Couldn’t have known it had slithered away, seeking a safe place to hide, or that later, it had decided to coil up under Billy’s chair, partly shaded from the sun, yet able to bask in its warmth. How could he have known that a magazine, falling suddenly from out of nowhere, would startle the snake so badly that instinct would make it strike out…and sink its deadly fangs into Billy’s hand.