Читать книгу Say You'll Stay And Marry Me - Patti Standard - Страница 10
ОглавлениеChapter Two
“Broken?” Sara asked, surprised at how calm she sounded since her heart thundered against her ribs, jolted by adrenaline.
“I’d say so.” Mac was obviously trying to sound in control, as well, but the roughness in his voice belied the calm words.
“Michael, go get your mother, please.” She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and hoped it felt reassuring in spite of its tremble. “We better get your dad to a hospital.”
Michael shook his head. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound came out. His mouth opened and closed futilely.
“His mother and I are divorced.” A sheen of perspiration covered Mac’s forehead. “Michael, I’m okay. Run up to the barn and tell Jacob to get down here—see if we can pry me off this floor. Go on, now. I’m okay.”
Movement returned to the boy’s stunned limbs and he was out of the garage in a flash, running as if his father’s life depended on it.
Sara looked helplessly at Mac. “What happened?” She moved to kneel beside him, afraid to touch him but instinctively wanting to be close.
“Tire caught my boot when she came off the lift.”
Sara looked at his twisted foot, horrified. “You mean my truck landed on your foot?”
“Just the tip of my boot, but it knocked me off balance.” He joined her in staring at his foot, now free of the tire. “Leg went one way, foot went the other.”
She felt sick at the thought and her stomach lurched again. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it is!” She reached toward him, then pulled back, her hand wavering in the air. “You were doing the code of the west thing, with the hat and spurs and all, just like Zane Grey, and look what happened! This is all my fault. Here, let me help you—”
Mac was trying to push himself up by sliding his hands forward a fraction at a time.
She could tell the movement was excruciating. She tried to support his back without jarring his leg. “Better?”
He nodded, a jerky little bob as if he was afraid of any larger movement. “Thanks. Now, what’s all this about Zane Grey?”
Before she could answer, she heard the thud of running feet, then two boys dashed into the garage, breathless.
“Jeez.” Jacob appeared older than his brother but had the same straight brown hair and country-scrubbed look, like he’d been hung to dry in the sun. His looks were at odds with the strong barnyard odor that clung to him, and Sara guessed he’d been mucking those same stalls Michael had worried would be assigned to him.
“Is it broken?” He echoed Sara’s words.
“Yeah. Call the Swansons and ask Libby to drive me into Dutch Creek.”
Jacob shook his head. “They’re in Cheyenne, remember? The Cattlemen’s Association meeting.”
“Well, call the Reeds then. See if Robby can—”
“They’re in Cheyenne, too. At the—”
“Right, the Cattlemen’s Association meeting.” Mac’s shoulders were rigid with tension.
“I can drive you, Dad,” the boy offered.
“No way.”
“Come on,” Jacob pleaded. “I’m fourteen. This is an emergency, for cripe’s sake. I’ll go real slow. I can do it, Dad.”
“Jacob, you don’t have a license. You can drive around the ranch all you want but you’re not going on the highway, and I don’t feel like having this discussion right now. Try Joe over at—”
“Is my truck fixed?” Sara interrupted.
All three turned to her in surprise, as if they’d forgotten she still knelt beside Mac, her hand touching his back.
Mac said, “It’s all set.”
“Then, gentlemen, let’s help your father up and see if we can maneuver him into the cab.” It was the least she could do, she thought. This was all her fault. She should have replaced those hoses in Denver. The truck should have been perfect before she left Laura’s. Perfect.
She stood and eyed the boys, both several inches taller than her own five-foot-five and quite a few pounds heavier. “One on each side,” she directed, “and let him put all his weight on your shoulders until he gets his good leg under him.”
Mac immediately protested, “Sara, we can manage. I’ll just call one of the neighbors and—”
“It sounds like they’re all in Cheyenne to me, and besides, I’m headed for Dutch Creek, anyway.” She smiled. “I’ll just push you out the door in the hospital parking lot. You won’t even slow me down.”
Mac’s answering grin was weak. “Since you put it that way, thank you.”
“Thank me once we get you up. I don’t think this is going to be pleasant. Ready, boys?”
Hesitant but determined, they positioned themselves beside their father. Mac put an arm around each shoulder and slowly, carefully, they stood, lifting him to his feet.
Sara could almost hear his teeth grind as he tried not to yell when his broken ankle shifted and the weight of his boot pulled on it. He blanched again and his jaw twitched spasmodically.
“Are you okay?”
Mac grunted and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, hissing between clenched teeth, “Let’s go.”
With a half-hop, half-shuffle, the boys helped him around the pickup to where she held open the passenger door. Mac put his good foot on the running board and managed to heave himself sideways onto the seat, leaving both legs stuck out the door.
Michael appeared near tears as he watched his father inch backward, dragging his injured foot inside the cab bit by bit.
“Michael,” Sara said to the younger boy, hoping to distract him, “see if you can find something soft for your father to rest that foot on. It might swell less if it’s propped up.”
“There’s cushions on those chairs next to the counter,” he suggested, already turning.
“That should do the trick. Speaking of swelling, I wonder if we should try to get that boot off.”
“Don’t touch it!” It was clear Mac’s shout was involuntary.
She glanced at the heavy leather boot, obviously of high quality in spite of signs of wear. “I’d hate for them to have to cut off your boot, that’s all.”
“Nobody’s cutting off my boot!” He sounded even more alarmed. “Michael, you just put those pillows on the floorboard there and I’ll be fine.” He’d backed up until he was almost opposite the steering wheel, his legs still pointed toward the door. Michael piled three canvas-covered pillows on the floor, and slowly Mac slid his injured left leg off the seat to rest on the stack, as straight as the cramped confines of the cab allowed. He bent his right leg at the knee and pulled it in far enough for Sara to shut the door.
“Michael, take care of the station,” he called through the open window, “and Jacob, be sure to finish Justice’s stall. And take a shower.”
“Can’t we come with you?” Michael asked, still worried but trying hard not to show it. “Maybe we could ride in the camper?”
“There’s no sense you hanging around the hospital. You’d have to stay in the waiting room the whole time. I’ll phone you as soon as I get there and have somebody in town run me home.”
“But—”
Mac ignored his interruption. “I’ll only be gone a couple hours. They’ll stick me in a cast, hand me some crutches, and I’ll be home in time to fix supper. Scratch that, I’ll pick up a couple of pizzas, okay?”
“You’ll call?” Michael stood on the running board and leaned through the window.
“I’ll call.” Mac reached out to ruffle his hair. “And you call the hospital and tell them we’re coming in so they can track down the doctor. Sara, you ready?”
She tried to slide behind the wheel, only to find her hip and shoulder come up firmly against Mac. She had to press herself against the length of him in order to squeeze in enough to shut her door.
“Do you have enough room?” He started to shift over but a sharp intake of breath told her how much the effort cost him.
“You hold still. Just let me fasten my seat belt.” She groped awkwardly behind him until she managed to press the metal clip of her seat belt into the fastener that poked into Mac’s hip. Her fingers were clumsy with embarrassment as they fumbled against the back of his jeans, and she knew her cheeks reddened.
After turning the key to start the engine, she reached out to adjust the rearview mirror, but stopped herself halfway. No time for that. No time for the little ceremonies that so easily became habit. No time to make everything perfect. Ignoring the unease she felt at skipping the ritual, she shoved the truck into gear, her hand brushing along Mac’s thigh with every movement, and backed out of the garage.
Mac waved to the boys, who stood forlornly in the open door of the garage, and Sara guided the truck onto the highway, avoiding as many jarring potholes as she could.
As soon as they rounded a curve in the road, putting the garage out of sight, she felt Mac slump heavily against her. His shoulders rounded inward as he hunched against the pain.
“Damn,” she breathed, suddenly realizing his cheery wave had been an act for the boys’ sake. “How far to Dutch Creek?”
“Forty miles.”
“I’ll drive fast.”
“Good.”
They were silent, the only sound the growl of the truck’s engine as she accelerated well past the speed limit The door handle dug uncomfortably into her hip and she shifted in her seat. The imperceptible movement brought her into even closer contact with Mac.
“Sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay.” He made an obvious effort to collect himself. “Look, we’re going to be pretty close for the next forty-five minutes, so we might as well be comfortable.” He put his arm across the back of the seat behind her head, giving them extra inches of shoulder room. “Now, you lean into me and I’ll lean into you, and we’ll sort of prop each other up.”
Sara tried to relax against him but so many nerve endings tingled from his nearness she felt her muscles stiffen and contract rather than relax. The feel of his forearm so close behind the bare skin of her neck, the sight of his fingers curved loosely near her shoulder, the way she nestled so perfectly under his arm—
“So, now that I’m a captive audience—”
Mac’s voice made her jump, she’d been so engrossed in the unique sensations flooding her body, her unexpected reactions to the man.
“—we might as well get to know each other a little better. Tell me something about Sara Shepherd.”
She stared at the mountains ahead of her, a little closer, a sharper outline against the brilliant blue sky. The wind whipped in the window, teasing strands from the elastic band securing her ponytail. “I’m forty-three,” she began, pulling a wisp of hair from her mouth and pushing it behind her ear. “Grew up on a farm outside of Denver. Married young. Widowed for four years now. One child, a daughter named Laura. She’s twenty-four.”
She stopped. Over twenty years summed up in little more than a breath. Mac seemed to be waiting for more, but she suddenly could think of nothing else to say. Married, widowed, one child. The life of Sara Shepherd.
“That’s all? A succinct curriculum vitae if I ever heard one.”
She smiled. “Trying to impress me with your Latin, huh? Reminds me of a professor friend of my husband. He likes to sprinkle his speech with a little quid pro quo now and then.”
“It’s a habit I picked up from an old English professor of mine at the University of Wyoming.”
She looked at Mac in surprise. “The University of Wyoming? You can’t mean Cyrus Bennington?”
“Don’t tell me you know Cyrus?”
“Know him? I just spent two days visiting him in Cheyenne! He and my husband were very close. My husband was an English professor at the University of Denver.”
“How about that!” Mac exclaimed. “Cyrus and I have been friends since my college days. He comes out here every August, trades in that English driving cap of his for a Stetson, lights up a stogie instead of his pipe and plays cowboy for a week or so.”
She laughed. “Now that I can’t picture. Cyrus with a secret life. He’s never mentioned it.”
“Small world, huh?” Mac’s smile made the lines around his eyes crinkle even more, and Sara found herself wanting to take her eyes from the road often to look at him.
“So now that we’ve discovered we’re almost related,” he said, “I think you can enlarge a little on that life’s story of yours, don’t you?”
She shook her head. “It will bore you to tears—put you right to sleep.”
“A woman with a face like a cameo angel driving a truck all alone to Canada? I don’t think so.” She could feel his gaze slide over her features and her heart skipped a nervous beat. “To tell you the truth,” he went on, “if you put me to sleep I’d be grateful. And don’t bother to wake me up when we get to the hospital, either. Whatever they’re going to do to me, I think I’d rather be asleep.”
Guilt stabbed through her again. If listening to her talk would take his mind off his ankle, give him something to concentrate on besides the pain, she’d gladly talk from here to Dutch Creek.
“You want my whole life’s story then?”
“Start with the ‘just traveling’ part.” Mac laid his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “How long have you been just traveling?”
“Two years.”
“Two years!” His eyes flew open and he turned his head sharply to look at her, jarring his leg. “Ow!” He set his boot more securely on the stack of pillows. “I was thinking more along the lines of a couple of weeks.”
“Nope. Two years.”
“You’ve been traveling around the country, living in your camper, for two years?”
She nodded.
Mac settled against the seat once more like a child awaiting a favorite story. “Okay, start from the beginning.”
The beginning? She wasn’t sure there was a beginning. When had her life with Greg began to seem like a trap rather than a marriage? When had the dishes and the laundry and the PTA bake sales combined to drag her down until she had no idea how to lift herself up any more?
“I guess things sort of came to a head when Laura graduated from college.” She took a firmer grip on the steering wheel as she tried to pick her way through the debris of the past. “My husband had been dead for two years by then, and I was still living in Denver. Most of our friends had really been Greg’s friends, it turned out, and I found myself alone a lot. All alone in that house.” Her voice tightened. “That house. Dusting that same damn china every week, vacuuming that mile-long carpet in the living room—vanilla cream carpet—washing those blinds with all those metal slats, row after row of them, catching every particle of dust—” She broke off as she saw Mac looking at her curiously. She consciously relaxed her jaw, which had tensed at the memories.
“Anyway, when Laura graduated from college, I said enough. I threw in the suburban-housewife towel. Sold the house, the lawn mower, the matching china—I had a yard sale you wouldn’t believe. Sold every last thing.” She found herself smiling. Just the thought of ridding herself of the shackles of her previous life could still make her breathe easier, more freely. Twenty-two years worth of clutter—all gone.
Mac saw the smile and couldn’t comprehend it. He still had his merit badges from Boy Scouts, Jacob’s first baby tooth, his father’s World War Two duffel bag. Those possessions grounded him, defined him, located him and his space in the impersonal scheme of things. They were the physical, tangible record of a life, and no one sold a life at a yard sale.
He said, “I don’t believe it. Not everything. You couldn’t have sold your daughter’s baby book.”
“Of course not!”
Aha! He’d known it.
“I gave it away.”
“What?”
“I gave all that kind of personal stuff to Laura. Passed it on to the next generation, so to speak. Those things are important to Laura. All I’ve got left is three pairs of shoes, a few pairs of jeans, enough dishes to fill a strainer, a CD player...” She paused and appeared to think for a moment. “That’s about it. Oh, and a spider plant.”
“A decadent luxury.”
Sara laughed. “I’m managing to keep it alive.”
The throbbing in his ankle reached clear to his hip by now, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on this woman beside him who’d pared her life down to an unrecognizable skeleton. “You mean there’s no dog to share the campfire with? No collection of matchbooks from places like Sweettooth, Texas? No knitting bag with a halffinished chartreuse pillow cover?”
She shook her head. “I read a lot.”
“Hmm.” He scratched the back of his neck absently. They came up on an eighteen-wheeler and Sara passed the huge truck without loosing speed. Smooth. Controlled. Crossing and recrossing the white line with practiced skill—two years of practice. The more she told him, the more he wanted to probe.
“So you sold everything, got into your truck and headed—where?”
“It didn’t matter at the time. I guess it still doesn’t. Into the sunset sounded good as far as I was concerned. I drove to the closest interstate entrance, and since I didn’t want to make a left into traffic, I took a right. And right was north.” She rested her elbow on the open window and drummed her fingers against the outside of the door, occasionally letting the force of the wind lift her hand and push her palm open. It was as if she caressed the air, savored the motion, as she described that first dash to freedom.
“It was the middle of July, blastingly hot, so I kept on going north. Seattle, British Columbia, then skirted the northern states, Minnesota, New York, Maine. I ran out of land in Bar Harbor and it was starting to get cold so I turned south. By November I was somewhere in Georgia. I spent that winter in the south avoiding the snow, then when it warmed up I headed north again. Sort of a big, looping circle.”
“Sounds like the way herds migrate.”
She smiled. “I guess.”
He tried to understand. “But herds follow the food, the grass. What did you follow? What do you follow?” He studied her as she kept her eyes on the road, the asphalt singing beneath the tires. What siren’s song did she hear?
“It still doesn’t matter. There’s no destination to this trip.” She sounded very sure. He knew she’d already asked herself the same questions. “As long as I never have to write another to-do list as long as I live, I’ll be happy. No schedule, no have-tos, no responsibilities, no one depending on me—”
“But what about your daughter?” Where was the room for family in a one-woman camper? he wondered.
“Laura.” Sara sighed. “She’s a grown woman. She’s got a college degree, a good job, her own apartment, her own life—but she considers the way I live some kind of personal affront.”
“She doesn’t approve?”
“That’s putting it mildly. She thinks I’m nuts, having some kind of mid-life crisis or something, and I’ll snap out of it if she badgers me long enough. Go back to baking cookies or whatever it is she thinks I should be doing.”
“Oh.” Mac tried to sound noncommittal. Obviously he failed.
“And what does that mean?” Her eyes were narrowed against the lowering sun, hair tangling in the wind, golden strands mixed with the brown. “You think I’m nuts, too?”
“I didn’t say that,” he hedged. “But you have to admit it’s not your run-of-the-mill life-style.”
“Haven’t you ever had days when you wanted to say to hell with it all—” she waved a hand to encompass the road, the land, all of Wyoming “—and just take off for the tropics?”
Had he ever wanted to bolt? Mac considered her question. There had been a time, those nights right after his wife had left, when he’d sit at the too-silent supper table looking at his boys over the charred pot roast, dishes from last night still piled in the sink, the boys ready to burst into tears or fights at the drop of a pin. Could he have walked out?
He shrugged. “I’ve lived in the same house all my life. My father and grandfather were born upstairs. My great-grandfather homesteaded the land I work today.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.”
Sara was silent a moment. “You’re lucky,” she said finally.
“I’m very lucky.” He knew he was. He might be tied to the land, but the ties were velvety soft and he willingly slipped his hands into the straps every time he plunged a shovel into the dark soil, every time he singed the Wallace brand into the hide of a bawling calf, every time he broke ice on a watering trough. Every time he dragged on his boots, tugged on his gloves, slapped his hat on his head and slammed the screen door, a door that had been slammed by four generation of Wallaces, he pulled the straps tighter, and more comfortably, around him.
“I’m not saying that ranching’s for everyone, either,” he felt compelled to add. “My ex-wife certainly didn’t think so. It’s hard work, the money’s lousy, and the winters are hellish.”
“But you love it.”
“I do.”
“She didn’t?”
“No, she didn’t.” He knew Sara waited for more, but he refused to elaborate. He didn’t like to talk about Ronda. He didn’t like to think about Ronda.
“Oh, so I’m supposed to tell all but you get to be the strong, silent type? Nothin’ doin’.”
“Ask me about something else then.” He saw the speculative look Sara gave him but was relieved when she dropped the subject of his ex-wife. His foot pounded in time to his pulse and he had to concentrate to keep his muscles relaxed. His marriage wasn’t something he could talk about without stiffening up until he was one big cramp.
“All right,” she agreed, “what does Mac stand for?”
“MacKenzie.”
“MacKenzie Wallace. A good clan name.”
“Quite a few generations back, but my father was proud of it. Being an only child, he made sure I’d carry on the name. Whereas you—” he looked at her carefully “—I’d say you’re from solid English stock.”
“And how can you tell that?”
His arm still lay along the back of her seat, and he reached up to trail a finger lightly along her cheekbone. “It’s that peaches and cream complexion of yours, like a rose petal settled right here—” He traced his way slowly up to her ear, suddenly unable to stop what had started as a casual touch. His blood quickened and he forgot all about the pain in his ankle. He wanted to let his finger slip down the curve of her neck, follow her collarbone, dip inside her T-shirt—
He jerked his hand away and curled his fingers around the back of the seat, gripping the padded upholstery tightly. The pain in his ankle roared to life, exploding from a dull ache to a white-hot throb, but the groan that welled from a place down deep inside came more from the unexpected and unwelcome feeling of desire than from physical pain.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound as if the touch of her silken skin under his fingers had left him unaffected. “You know, the English were bitter enemies of the Scottish clans. I bet my ancestors and yours were pretty nasty to each other.”
Sara’s cheeks were tinged a delicate pink, but her voice was calm as she said, “So I’ve heard. They wouldn’t approve of my aiding and abetting the enemy this way. Although I guess since it was my truck that injured you in the first place, I struck my blow for England.”
“It was quite a blow.” He pointed to the cluster of buildings that had come into view as the truck reached the top of a small rise. “Take a left at the stop sign. The hospital is right behind the high school.”
They were at the small clinic within minutes, a single-story cinder-block building painted sterile white. Sara parked directly in front of the double glass doors, ignoring the yellow-striped parking spaces on the other side of a low brick planter.
“Wait here. I’ll get somebody to help you.”
Sara jumped from the truck and disappeared inside. She was back almost immediately, followed by a nurse pushing a wheelchair.
“Afternoon, Susie. How are you?” he greeted her. Susie wore her usual no-nonsense white uniform covered by a shapeless, colorless sweater. She was as wide as she was tall, and her faded brown hair curled tight to her scalp like sheep’s wool. She’d been playing around with those home perms again, he saw.
“Mac Wallace, what have you done to yourself?” She yanked open the truck door and stood with her hands on her massive hips, her look disapproving.
“Have you been losing weight again?” he asked. “I swear, you’re going to disappear on me one of these days.”
“That didn’t work when you were a kid trying to get out of a shot, and it won’t work now. Come on, let’s haul your butt out of there.” She took off her wire-rimmed glasses and let them dangle from the gold chain around her neck, motioning with her hands. “Scoot forward. Try to take your weight on your good leg.”
He couldn’t believe the agony caused by the slightest movement. His denim shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he’d maneuvered himself into the wheelchair. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before he looked at Sara. She stood in front of him, beside her blue truck, uncertain, looking as worried and as near tears as Michael had. He tried to smile reassuringly.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded. “You’re welcome.” The silence lengthened while Mac stared into dove gray eyes, suddenly hesitant to say goodbye.
“The doctor’s waiting for you,” Susie said, releasing the brake on the chair. “And he’s not too pleased about having his fishing interrupted, so we better get a move on.” She started to turn the chair to the door.
“Goodbye,” Sara called. She lifted a hand in a halfwave.
“Goodbye. Thanks again.” The chair faced the hospital entrance, and he could see Sara’s reflection in the glass doors. He watched her walk around the truck before the automatic opener on the hospital doors swung them wide, stretching her image until it broke and disappeared. He heard the truck door slam and the engine start as Susie pushed him over the threshold into the cool, antiseptic hallway. His teeth began to chatter. Delayed shock, he told himself, clamping his mouth shut. The empty feeling in his gut had nothing to do with loneliness.
Sara pulled into the hospital parking lot an hour later. Instead of heading down the highway, she’d had a hamburger from a drive-through ice cream stand and wandered around the four-block main street of Dutch Creek, self-proclaimed gateway to Yellowstone National Park. Miniature stuffed buffaloes and gaudily dyed geodes seemed to be the tourist merchandise of choice, along with the ever present T-shirts.
She’d followed the sidewalk past the last shop—a combination frozen-yogurt-southwestern-pottery store—to the park at the end of the street. She’d sat on a bench next to the empty playground under the shade of a cottonwood tree and worried about Mac. After a half hour of internal debate, she’d walked to her truck and returned to the hospital, unable to drive away without checking on him.
She felt guilty, she decided. That was why she was so reluctant to leave. It had nothing to do with the way his hand had lingered on her face that brief moment in the truck, his roughened fingertips gentle against her skin. She just needed to be sure he’d been released and was on his way to the ranch. Just a quick stop at the front desk was all it would take. She’d make it to Jackson Hole before dark.
But the admissions desk was shuttered when she entered the hospital, and there was no bell on the counter under the hand-lettered please-ring-for-service sign. A single hallway stretched before her, its waxed gray vinyl reflecting the overhead fluorescent lights, the walls a no-nonsense, industrial-strength green. She started down it, searching for the nurse’s station.
Mac’s voice was audible after only a few feet, coming from an open door at the end of the hall. She peeked around the edge of the frame. A narrow hospital bed, both foot and head raised, took up almost all of the tiny room, and Mac took up almost all of the bed. His one-size-fitsall beige gown came only as far as his knees, so the old-fashioned, white plaster cast, molded from mid-calf to toes, was the first thing to draw her eyes. The intravenous drip attached to the back of his hand was the next.
Mac was shouting into the perforated circle in a metal panel on the wall near his head. He held a cord in his free hand and was viciously poking the white button at its end with his thumb.
“Susie, this is the last time I’m saying this, I want to go home!”
Sara heard the nurse’s voice echo from the panel, impatience clear despite the scratchy intercom.
“You can’t go home, Mac. Now settle down before I come give you another shot of something. And stop pushing that buzzer.”
“The boys are home by themselves. I can’t just lay here. I’ve got to get home.”
“Listen, I’ll call the Swansons and have Libby go over—”
“They’re in Cheyenne.”
“At the Cattlemen’s Association—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “Now bring me my clothes and the only boot that damned doctor didn’t mutilate and—”
“Mac, the doctor said we need to keep an eye on you overnight. I can’t do a thing about—”
“I can stay with them.”
Mac’s head shot around at the sound of her voice.
“What was that, Mac?” Susie asked over the intercom.
“Just a minute, Susie. I’ll buzz you.”
“You touch that buzzer one more time and I’ll—”
Mac flicked the switch on the wall, cutting off the nurse’s threat.
“Hi.” He looked at Sara as if nothing would surprise him anymore. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I came back.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Oh.” He paused. “Did you know that damned doctor cut off my boot? Elephant. Genuine elephant. It’s not like you can go down to the local five-and-dime and get another elephant hide boot!”
“I’m sorry. They looked like nice boots.”
“Damn right! And now they’ve got me pumped so full of painkillers they say they want to keep me overnight so they can drip it into me drop by drop!”
“Mac, I’d be happy to go to the ranch and stay with the boys,” she said. Why not? That was the whole point of her new life—no schedule, no worries, no one to answer to. If she could help out someone who’d helped her, what did it matter if she took a day longer to get to Yellowstone? “Besides, I still owe you for that last batch of repairs. I could keep an eye on the boys tonight, come pick you up in the morning, and we can settle the bill then.”
“I can’t have you go to all that trouble.” Mac bounced his good leg against the mattress in frustration. “There’s got to be somebody who didn’t go to Cheyenne for the weekend.”
“You’d be doing me a favor, really,” she told him. “It’ll be difficult finding an RV spot this late in Jackson. I need a place to park.”
“It’s nice of you to offer, Sara, but...” Mac hesitated and she was surprised to see a look of embarrassment on his face. Of course! She realized the problem with a start. That time they’d shared in the truck had made her feel so close to him, she’d forgotten they were strangers. She couldn’t ask him to leave his children in the care of someone who’d wandered into his gas station mere hours before.
“But I could be a mass murderer or something?”
“I don’t mean that, but—”
“Hey, you can’t be too careful these days. You’re absolutely right. I’d feel the same way in your place.” Sara thought for a moment. “I tell you what, why don’t I give Cyrus a call over at the university? He’ll vouch for my sanity.”
“Any friend of Cyrus’s is a friend of mine?” Mac thought it over for a moment. “Sure, sounds like a good idea. Of course, it could be the morphine talking, but right now all I want is to go to sleep and I can’t think of any other alternatives.”
Mac did look tired, sick-tired, with dark smudges under his eyes. Sara picked up the phone next to his bed and dialed the number of her late husband’s oldest and dearest friend.
“Cyrus?” She was pleased to hear his voice after only the first ring. “You’ll never guess who I ran into in Dutch Creek.”
“Mac Wallace,” he replied promptly in his crisp English accent. When she gasped, he said, “My dear girl, there are only a dozen people living in that entire half of the state. It wasn’t exactly a stumper.”
She laughed. Cyrus always made her feel good. Briefly, she explained the situation, then handed the phone to Mac. “He wants to talk to you.”
Sara could hear only one side of the conversation, but Mac laughed out loud several times. She could just imagine what Cyrus was telling him about her.
“All right, Cyrus,” Mac said. “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s been great talking to you. The boys can’t wait to see you in August.” He held out the phone for her to hang up.
“Well?”
“Cyrus said you’re definitely sane, the salt of the earth, he’d trust you with his children any time—if he had any—and he urged me to marry you immediately.”
