Rough Stock (2 page)

“He’s fine,” Seth assured him, helping him get his boots off. “Not even a limp.”

“Damn horse,” Walker muttered, but Seth could see the relief in the man’s eyes. The tight corners of his mouth didn’t relax, though. These days, they never did.

“We’ll stop here,” Austin declared, already getting a blanket out of his saddlebag.

“It’s too early,” Walker growled. “We need to meet the others at the Gul—”

“You can barely stand up. And don’t tell me you can ride. You need to stay on your feet and keep moving,” Austin argued.

Walker glared at him. “I have dry clothes in my pack. I can make it to—”

“No,” Austin bit out.

“I’ll go,” said Seth.

Both men looked at him.

Seth shrugged. “It’s not far. And the terrain’s easy. I’ll meet up with the others and we’ll get the herd and bring them back here.” He said it as though it were a done deal, as though he’d
find
the herd, alive. Seth couldn’t allow himself to imagine otherwise right now. He’d almost lost his brother. He’d already lost his father. If they lost Snake River Ranch, too, well, it just couldn’t happen.

Walker finally nodded. “Head to the Gulch, then. Find the rest of the herd and drive them back here. We’ll camp here tonight and cross in the morning. We need as many riders as we can get out there tonight. Every night we leave the herd unprotected, the more we lose to the wolves and cats. Go. But get the head count,” he told Seth, “and radio it to us before you start back with them.”

Seth nodded and swung back up into the saddle. “We’ll be back,” he promised and dug his heels into Choctaw, feeling bad about making the horse work any harder than was necessary. But he needed to see for himself if Snake River Ranch had any kind of future at all.

‡

R
owan Archer checked
her watch, twisting her wrist, and splashed coffee down the front of her scrubs. “Damn it,” she hissed and snatched at the paper towel rack beside her. Unfortunate as it was (and hot), at least it had the bonus of waking her up. The mental fog of her mid-shift slump cleared away as she swiped angrily at the growing stain on her sickly-green-colored shirt.

It might have been an improvement.

It was late, almost three am. The beginning of her shift had seen one fall on a patch of ice, one snow-shoveling-induced heart attack, and two colds that had been ignored for too long and were skirting pneumonia. She’d missed her usual tuck-in call to Willow, again. Rowan only worked two overnight shifts a week, but they were brutal here in Cheyenne. Too many people used the ER as their general practitioner. She hardly ever had time for a real break, only coffee standing up in the nurses’ lounge, which was just as well, she figured. If she sat for too long, she might fall asleep.

Shift work was killing her.

Slowly.

And she’d only been a registered nurse for less than a year.

She drained the mug knowing the caffeine rush would carry her to the end of the shift. It was only a few more hours, and if the place quieted down so she could catch up on all her charts, she might even get to leave a few minutes early. She set the cup in the communal sink, intending to wash it later, and headed back out to the nurses’ station.

Sandy, the head nurse, was on the phone, looking displeased. When she hung up, she looked at Rowan. “We’ve got a sideswipe coming in,” the haggard woman told her. “Drunk driver versus minivan. Lacerations, minor injuries, for everyone.”

Rowan sighed and nodded. On the one hand, no one had been seriously injured (or killed), but it was looking like a long night with multiple patients.

Ten minutes later, the double doors of Cheyenne Regional’s ER opened and vics started pouring in. There were six in all, an elderly man who smelled like a brewery, even from Rowan’s relatively safe distance, and a family of five: Mom, Dad, Grandma, and two kids. Mom gave the old man a murderous look as the paramedics wheeled him in on a gurney, then she refocused on holding a gauze pad to her small daughter’s arm.

Rowan felt a spike of anger as she watched them. The girl was about Willow’s age, also with dark hair. Rowan’s heart knocked hard against her chest to think she could have been lost, in an instant, due to someone else’s poor choices. She gave the woman a reassuring look, a mother’s knowing, concerned glance, even as the lady looked like she might strangle the man who’d caused all their pain.

Rowan could relate to that look. She’d do anything for Willow to keep her happy and safe.

Sandy took charge immediately, directing Rowan to take the offending man to Exam Room One, separating him from the family he’d plowed into.

Rowan bit her tongue as she realized that meant she was stuck treating him herself. She held the door for the paramedics as they hustled him into the small room and watched them, jealously, as they disappeared just as quickly.

The man groaned loudly.

“Just lie back,” Rowan told him sharply, accentuating the command with the snap of her blue latex gloves.

He made another sound, low in his throat. Without missing a beat, Rowan reached for an emesis basin and held it out. She turned away just as he vomited, half on his shirt, half into the pan. In several years she’d gotten used to the blood and other human secretions, but vomit could sometimes still do her in.

She set the basin aside and shoved another clean one into his chest until he had the presence of mind to hold onto it himself. Behind her, the door opened. When Rowan turned, she saw a uniformed policeman filling the open space.

“I’ve got to take him in,” he said in a gravelly tone.

Rowan picked up some tweezers and a clean steel bowl. “Not until I dig this glass out of his forehead,” she replied.

The cop frowned, looking from the drunk to her. “But he—”

“I don’t care!” Rowan snapped. “I still have to treat him. Shut the door,” she said firmly. “You can wait on the other side.”

The frown deepened, but he moved back, closing the door behind him.

Rowan couldn’t tell if he really was waiting outside the door or had moved away entirely. She turned back to the old man, and she could practically see the fog lift from his beer-battered brain as he realized he was in serious trouble.

Wyoming had made drunk driving illegal, finally, in 2007. Apparently this guy hadn’t gotten the memo. Or perhaps he was too far gone, too set in his bad habits to ever change them now. Rowan guessed this wasn’t his first brush with the law.

He cast about wildly, gaze landing on the door on the other side of the room. “Gotta…go,” he half-whispered as he eyed the exit, which was not really an exit at all. It just led to a shared supply room.

“Sit down!” Rowan ordered. “Or I’ll get out the restraints and tie you down.”

The man reared back and eyed her warily.

Rowan might have been slight of frame, but she knew how to use her voice and demeanor to take charge of any given situation. It was a lesson well learned in nursing school, and she resorted to it often, though she had to admit that right this moment her temper was getting the better of her.

She’d do her job, to the best of her ability, and that included minimal distractions. But he was for damn sure going to jail tonight after she patched him up, even if she had to drive him there herself, which she hoped she didn’t, because she didn’t want beer-stank and vomit in her car.

Maybe it was from raising Willow mostly alone, with only one set of eyes to watch her, doubly vigilant, doubly careful, always worried that one parent wasn’t enough. But seeing that little girl with the bleeding arm, looking so much like Willow, triggered every hot button Rowan had. “I don’t know what’s wrong with people like you,” she said, because she was tired and because it was true. “You could’ve killed that whole family. If you want to die, drink yourself to death in front of the television. Don’t take anyone else with you.”

His face crumpled, and Rowan knew she’d gone too far, said too much. When he started to cry, with long trails of saliva dripping from his lower lip, she handed him a paper towel by way of apology.

She had to get off nights. She just wasn’t herself. Or perhaps she was too much herself, a distilled version of the practicality and hardheadedness that had gotten them, herself and her daughter, this far in life, without any handouts. There was no point in taking any of it out on this man. It looked as though he was in for a rough ride anyway when Rowan was done with him.

He deserved it, but she didn’t have to be cruel about it.

She finished picking glass out of the man’s forehead and applied antibiotic ointment to the tiny wounds. When she was done, she pushed her stool away from him, mostly to get away from the smell, picked up his chart, and stepped out into the hall to mark her progress.

The officer wasn’t there, but the sound of shoes on the floor made Rowan look up. Sandy ducked into Exam Room One, the room Rowan had just vacated. She heard the sounds of complaint wafting through the air in slurred but muffled English. Sandy stepped back, closing the door again without comment, and searched the hall until her hard gaze landed on Rowan.

Shit
, Rowan muttered to herself.

As the head nurse started toward her, Rowan knew from Sandy’s quick pace and stiff spine that she was in trouble. The drunk driver had ratted her out for her unprofessional behavior. There’d be a warning, hopefully just verbal—hopefully Sandy wouldn’t chart it in Rowan’s personnel file. Fat chance. Sandy charted every sneeze.

As the older woman approached, though, she looked pained, and Rowan wondered if she was in more trouble than she thought. She racked her brain trying to think what else she could’ve done—even with her crazy schedule of day care and babysitters she was never late, hardly ever called in sick.

Her stomach roiled, much like the driver’s, as she looked down at the paperwork in her hand. A chart. She’d screwed up a chart because she was tired. Patients died that way. It happened more often than it should have in nursing. It should never happen at all. Judging by the look on Sandy’s face, the determined line of the woman’s thin lips, this was bad.

“Was it—?” Rowan couldn’t think who she’d dispensed meds to tonight. Which cases? Which drugs? Nothing had required a second key. Nothing had needed secondary approval. Nothing was fatal, even in incorrect doses. “Was it—?”

“It’s your father, Rowan,” Sandy told her grimly.

Rowan’s mouth froze, half-open. She was wide awake now, adrenaline coursing through her.

“Your sister called. Rowan, he’s had a heart attack. He’s at the medical center in Star Valley. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

Rowan’s head swam. “How bad is it?” she demanded. “Have they already given thrombolytics? Are they—?”

“I don’t know.”

Rowan glared at her.

“I’m not lying. Your sister didn’t know. They only just wheeled him in a few minutes ago. Rowan, I’m sorry.”

Rowan passed Sandy the chart and the pen with her shaking hand. It dropped on the floor with a clatter and rolled away on the slightly uneven tile. “I have to go,” she declared.

Sandy was already nodding.

Rowan darted down the hall, not bothering to clock out. She passed the rattled family from the vehicle accident, huddled together in the corner looking worn and confused. She felt a kinship toward them, as late night visits to the emergency room so often did to people. This time, though, she was on the wrong side—not giving news but getting it—and having nothing but unanswered questions to show for it.

The drive to her apartment was quick and easy this time of night. She gunned the engine into the empty spot closest to her door, spinning her tires on the unsalted slush. She managed to bring the whole thing to a stop just before she hit the curb and jumped out while the whole car was shaking.

Moira gave a small cry and leapt off the couch as Rowan burst through the door, keys in hand, fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry!” Rowan gasped. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Oh my God! What’s wrong?”

Rowan had to pull herself together, relying on her training to keep herself calm as she explained the situation to the twenty-year-old babysitter.

Moira understood right away and began gathering her things to leave early.

Rowan pulled out her wallet and frowned at its meager contents. Normally she paid the girl on Fridays, but she doubted that they’d be home by the end of the week. She didn’t want to owe the woman money. Rowan had been broke too many times herself. Stifling a sigh, she pulled some bills out and offered them.

Moira took them with a rueful smile and the uncomfortable gratitude that came when one poor person paid another out of pocket.

Rowan tried not to think about the cost of the unexpected trip. She showed Moira out and headed straight to her bedroom, where she drew out her tattered suitcase and laid it on the bed. In went jeans and sweaters, haphazard, unfolded. She shoved her toothbrush in the side pocket then stared at the bulging container. Without realizing, she’d packed almost all her clothes. She didn’t have that many.

She stuffed Willow’s clean clothes from the laundry basket into the worn pink Disney Princess backpack and loaded it all into the car, letting the little girl sleep as long as possible. Then, for one brief moment in all the chaos, Rowan stood at the front of her almost-five-year-old’s bed, watching her sleep peacefully.