Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) (10 page)

Fool, fool, fool.

Pushing him hard for details on his life helped her build her case against anyone marrying a rodeo cowboy. His confession trumped her reasoning in spades. He’d refused to offer a word on his behalf no matter how she tried to lure the details out of him. Instead, he’d suggested they turn in early and stalked into the back room. Moments later, Dottie and Jon Miller arrived home and Rachel had shared small talk with them until the cookies were gone and the teapot empty.

Now, as the wind rattled the gutter above the window and watery shadows from the distant yard light flittered on the wall across from the couch, anger and compassion warred for equal billing in her heart. How could he say he caused his wife’s death and not elaborate? The anguish on his face told the whole story. Still, Rachel had a difficult time merging her impression of Nick as a hard-headed cowboy, and one of a husband thoughtless enough to cause a death. Nick Davidson, for all his gruff and arrogance, was a nice guy.

Her eyes drifted closed. She fumbled with the collar of her shirt until her fingers wrapped around the tiny cross on the chain at her throat. My Lord God, I offer Nick up to you in prayer. I don’t know the truth about his pain, but I do know he’s hurting terribly. Heal his heart and soul, Lord. Bring him to Your light and help him find his way.

Rolling over onto her back, Rachel opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. God listened; God cared. She’d laid her problem at the foot of His cross. What more could she do?

As Rachel listened to the wind blowing through the trees, she acknowledged the uncomfortable truth. With a groan, she squeezed her knees together. This was fast becoming the most ridiculous adventure she’d ever been part of compounded by no nightlight to direct her toward the bathroom.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch. An unexpected insight dawned regarding her Good Samaritan trip as she squinted out the darkened window. When was the last time she’d simply let go and taken off? Her responsibilities at home kept her tethered to her office, a mere beck and call for her clients, the guys with the big bucks that fueled her lifestyle. Her life and her career were, of course, important to her, but experiencing the freedom of the road stirred old memories into thoughts of her demanding routine.

On the other hand, this vagabond lifestyle also opened up wounds she’d successfully kept buried for years. Rachel frowned as she crossed her legs and sat up straighter. The freedom of the open road had lured her father from her in exchange for the roar of the crowds, the challenge of proving he was best. All her young life, Rachel had longed to travel with her Dad, but he never took her. Instead, she’d spent her summers at Uncle Mitch’s ranch and drove the circuit with him. In sharp contrast to Bud Hill, Mitch Cauldwell loved having his family travel with him. Rachel and her cousin Polly rode shotgun and exchanged rodeo stories all up and down the Western Region. Uncle Mitch made Rachel feel needed and wanted, a part of the family.

He still did.

A groan from across the next room snapped her back to the apartment, the warm living room and Nick. Nick Davidson. A cowboy with more trouble on his plate than she ever cared to undertake. She knew as a Christian, she should listen to his rants and raves, and respond with love and grace. That would certainly be the answer, maybe from a strong Christian like Uncle Mitch. Her thoughts perked. Maybe Uncle Mitch had already made a redemption project out of Nick. Hope renewed in her heart. Of course. Uncle Mitch spent lots of time with Nick. Rachel grinned in the dark. Nick didn’t stand a chance against Uncle Mitch’s evangelical ways.

As a gust of wind whipped the side of the lodge, Rachel frowned into the dark, her grin fading. Nick carried a tremendous load of guilt that flashed into anger. One moment he seemed to appreciate her company, then -wham!- he’d snap at her like a bulldog with a bone. Did grief do that to people? When Aunt Doreen died, Uncle Mitch hadn’t gone all surly. No, he’d wept with relief that the vicious cancer no longer raged through his beloved wife’s body and that she had gone to glory to wait for him.

A familiar scowl settled into place as Rachel folded her arms across her chest. Uncle Mitch had thrown himself into his work after Aunt Doreen died and Polly returned to school. He’d been there for his family while his family was still around.

Guilt flashed through her as she compared father to uncle. Two different people; two different lives. Her father had made choices best for him and she’d survived, even thrived, without him. In her heart, she’d forgiven him, but the whole forgetting thing would take time.

Her palm brushed over the soft blanket draped over the couch cushions. Dwelling on the past never did anything but depress her. She needed to change focus before she really worked herself down a hole.

Another soft moan filtered from the back room. Rachel slid off the couch and straightened her shirt and jeans. Someday, she’d find a place to pigeon hole her relationship with her father, but in the meantime, she’d made her uncle a promise. Nick Davidson was precious cargo to Uncle Mitch. She’d not let her favorite uncle down.

Nick’s groans echoed in the darkness, his restless movements becoming apparent. Crossing the living room, careful not to bump into furniture along the way, she stopped at the open door of the back room. A few incoherent words blended with the noise of the sweeping gusts outside. She couldn’t make out his features as she only saw shadows in the dark, but she didn’t need her sight to sense the tension that coiled Nick tight as a spring in the middle of a dream. Did he always sleep fitfully, or was the medication having some ill effect she wasn’t aware of?

“No!”

Rachel jerked back as Nick shouted as clearly as if he’d been awake. “You can’t go...no...I’ll go....” The phrases poured in scattered waves as Nick wrestled with some unseen demon.

Light spilled through the doorway behind her illuminating Jon Miller tucking his shirt into his jeans. Dottie followed, her fingers tangled in the edges of her bathrobe.

“We heard the commotion. Are you okay?” Dottie whispered loudly, her lips mere inches from Rachel’s ear.

“I don’t know, he just started moaning.”

“Jon, go see if Nick’s alright.” Dottie shifted and waved toward the cot.

Jon hesitated. “I’ve heard stories, you know. Stuff about not waking a sleepwalker and the such.”

“He’s not walking, he’s moaning.”

“Could be the same thing. What do I know about nightmares?”

Rachel glanced from husband to wife. This wasn’t their issue to deal with. Armed with instructions from the nurse on Nick’s care, Rachel leaned for a better look. “It’s okay, I’ll check on him.”

Dottie held out her arm, the cuff of her sleeve covering her knuckles. “Jon, go see if he needs help.”

Jon glared at his wife before taking tentative steps into the room. “Hey, Nick? You okay?” Jon kept a good three feet from the edge of the bed. “The women here are worried about ya.”

Nick rolled over, flinging his arm wide. From the dim light in the other room, Rachel noted the crumpled shirt and jeans, relieved her traveling companion had chosen to sleep fully clothed as she had.

“Nick,” Jon called a bit gruffer. “Are you okay?”

The air in the room stilled. Rachel listened as Nick’s breathing became slow and even. She leaned against the doorway feeling foolish over her worry. Lots of people were restless sleepers, nothing to worry about. Just because Nick tossed and turned a bit at night didn’t mean he was about to fall into a coma. Rachel closed her eyes and thanked God nothing more serious than a fitful sleep had frightened her. What would she have done. . .no, she didn’t want to go there. One battle a night was enough for her.

“Suppose he’s okay?” Dottie clutched at her robe. “Should we call the doc?”

“I don’t think so,” Rachel approached the bed and pulled the cover back over his shoulder. “The nurse told me to watch for signs. I don’t think he’s in trouble.”

Frustration tightened the corners of her mouth as she sorted through bits of information the nurse had given her, trying to piece together an acceptable response. Nothing came to mind. Her fist tightened on the cotton comforter. Babysitting this cowboy and his concussion against further injury was the whole reason she’d delayed her return to Denver and jeopardized her precarious career. Why couldn’t she remember emergency procedure?

A moan crescendoed into a growl as Nick rolled over again.

“Here we go again.” Jon ran his hand through his messed hair. “Should I wake him up?”

Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest as his shoulders turned toward her. Average bull riders had maybe a couple of inches on her own height. Nick stood at least six inches taller than her, his chest impossibly wide. He posed just as much a threat in his sleep as awake. Lord, what am I supposed to do? “Nick.” She jostled the covers beneath his arm. “You need to wake up. Come on, let’s go.”

“You can’t go,” he mumbled. His palm wrapped around her wrist. “You’ll die.”

Her heart rate sped up. Nick could snap her arm like a matchstick if she wasn’t careful. He’d confessed he’d somehow been responsible for the death of his wife, and in the clutches of unforgiving sleep, his mind refused to let him forget. No drug-induced sleep could stem the flow of guilt he clutched close as truth. Grabbing for Jon’s sleeve, Rachel leaned closer, relieving the pressure of his grip. “It’s me, Rachel. You need to wake up, Nick.”

He pulled her closer until her hip sank onto the edge of the bed. His thumb dug into her palm and loosened her fist. “Let go.”

Another groan as he hauled her against his chest. If she didn’t act fast, he’d have her tossed across the bed in no time. Throwing caution to the wind, she plucked at his sleeve with her other hand, pinching arm hair in the process.

“Ouch.” He released her wrist just as the forearm she’d pinched shoved her away. “What. . .?”

Rachel sidestepped out of the way as Jon shook Nick’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Nick rolled to one side, his eyelids fluttered as if fighting the intrusion. His arm swung wide allowing Jon to duck out easily enough. Rachel stepped up and steadied him. Nick jerked away like a calf bolting from a branding iron. In one fluid motion, he threw back the covers and sat straight up.

“What are you doing?” Blond hair ruffled in every direction, Nick swiped his hand over his face.

Jon cleared his throat. “Just checking on you, buddy. Need a drink of water or something?”

“You were restless.” Rachel reached out and rubbed his arm. “We tried to help.”

Nick jerked away and look around the room. His brows drew together as he shook his head. “What happened?”

“You were having a nightmare, Nick.” Dottie rubbed her arms against the chilled air. “We didn’t know if you needed help.”

“It’s nothing.” His words lingered in the darkness until a gust of wind drowned out all noise save for its own mournful howl.

Rachel folded her arms across her waist. “I thought maybe the medication--”

“It’s nothing,” he snapped and pushed the covers further to the side. “I’m fine.”

She lowered her hands to her sides as her rational thought returned. She should have known this was coming. No self-respecting cowboy ever claimed to need anyone. “Fine. Glad to hear it. Now, since we know we’re not needed, I guess we can all go back to sleep.”

Dottie and Jon looked from one to the other. “You sure you’re alright, Nick?” Jon eyed Nick closely. “Maybe a quick snack will help.”

“Great,” Dottie chimed in as she headed out of the room. “I’ll put on a pot of tea and we can chat.”

“Yep, a midnight snack will make everything better,” Jon muttered as he followed Dottie out the doorway. The kitchen light snapped on and water ran in the sink.

Rachel knelt down beside Nick. She smoothed his tousled hair aside revealing strain beneath bruised eyes. Nick Davidson harbored much more than a concussion to worry about. Energy drained from her like water from a stock tank. The stress of this entire adventure was wearing thin on both of them. Her hand slid to his shoulders where her fingers traced ruts sculpted by tension. Out of habit, she began to knead the knotted muscles. They both needed a good night’s sleep.

“Glad you’re alright.” Her voice fractured.

He flexed his arm and pulled away. “I told you not to worry.”

“Right.” She rose to her feet and bent a knee to the bed frame to steady herself. “I’ll keep that in mind next time you yell in the middle of the night.”

He stared straight ahead as he plowed his hand through his hair. “Your babysitting services aren’t wanted.”

The familiar words bore none of their usual bite. Helpless wasn’t a state cowboys accepted easily. An odd niggle of compassion warmed her cheek. She stifled a yawn and turned toward the doorway. “Dottie is making tea. Need a cup?”

Mattress springs groaned as Nick swung his legs around and stood up. He caught her around the shoulders and swayed until Rachel worried she’d not be able to hold him up. Nick caught his balance and leaned on her - another weakness she knew would not sit well with him. “You don’t have to join us, Nick.”

He pulled her close and stood in silence. The wind rattled the window as his warm breath tickled her ear. “You’ve had enough of me for one night. Get some sleep and I’ll sip tea with our hosts.”