Since his family isn't here, I felt like I should accompany him to the hospital. I hope you understand."
She didn't give a damn whether they understood or not. If she had been entertaining the President and First Lady tonight, she would have done exactly the same thing.
After hanging up, she returned to the nurses'
station and inquired for the umpteenth time if there had been an update on Chase's condition.
The nurse frowned with irritation. "As soon as the doctor— Oh, here he is now." Glancing beyond Marcie's shoulder, she said, "This lady is waiting for word on Mr. Taylor."
"Tyler," Marcie corrected, turning to meet the young resident. "I'm Marcie Johns."
"Phil Montoya." They shook hands. "Are you a relative?"
"Only a good friend. Mr. Tyler doesn't have any family in Fort Worth. They all live in Milton Point."
"Hmm. Well, he's finally come around. Got swatted in the head pretty good, but thankfully no serious damage was done."
"I saw the bull land on his chest."
"Yeah, he's got several broken ribs."
"That can be dangerous, can't it?"
"Only if a jagged rib punctures an internal organ."
Marcie's face went so pale that even the freckles she carefully camouflaged with cosmetics stood out in stark contrast. The doctor hastily reassured her.
"Fortunately that didn't happen either. No bleeding organs. I've taped him up. He'll be all right in a few days, but he's not going to feel very chipper. I certainly don't recommend that he do any bull riding for a while."
"Did you tell him that?"
"Sure did. He cussed me out."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged and said affably, "I'm used to it. This is a county hospital. We get the psychos, the derelicts, and the victims of drug deals gone awry. We're used to verbal abuse."
'May I see him?"
"For a few minutes. He doesn't need to be talking."
"I won't talk long."
"He's just been given a strong painkiller, so he'll likely be drifting off Soon anyway."
"Then if it's all the same to you," Marcie said smoothly, "I'd like to stay the night in his room."
"He'll be well taken care of," the nurse said stiffly from behind her.
Marcie stood firm. "Do I have your permission,
Dr. Montoya?"
He tugged on his earlobe. Marcie gave him the direct look that said she wasn't going to budge from her position. Buyers, sellers, and lending agents had had to confront that steady blue stare. Nine times out of ten they yielded to it. Earlier that night, the paramedic had found it hard to argue with.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt," the resident said at last.
"Thank you."
"Keep the conversation to a minimum."
"I promise. Which room is he in?"
Chase had been placed in a semiprivate room, but the other bed was empty. Marcie advanced into the room on tiptoe until she reached his bedside.
For the first time in two years, she gazed into Chase Tyler's face. The last time she had looked into it, their positions had been reversed.
She'd been lying semiconscious in a hospital bed and he had been standing beside it, weeping over his wife's accidental death.
By the time Marcie's injuries had healed and she was well enough to leave the hospital, Tanya Tyler had been interred. A few months after that, Chase had left Milton Point for parts unknown.
Word around town was that he was running the rodeo circuit, much to the distress of his family.
Not too long ago, Marcie had bumped into
Devon, Lucky's bride, in the supermarket. After
Marcie had introduced herself, Devon had confirmed the rumors circulating about Chase.
Family loyalty had prevented her from openly
discussing his personal problems with an outsider, but Marcie had read between the lines of what she actually said. There were hints about his delicate emotional state and a developing drinking problem.
"Laurie is beside herself with worry about him," Devon had said, referring to Chase's mother. "Sage, Chase's sister—"
"Yes, I know."
"She's away at school, so that leaves only
Lucky and me at the house with Laurie. She feels that Chase is running away from his grief over Tanya instead of facing it and trying to deal with it."
Chase had also left the foundering family business in the hands of his younger brother, who, if rumors were to be believed, was having a hard time keeping it solvent. The oil business wasn't improving. Since Tyler Drilling depended on a healthy oil economy, the company had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy for several years.
Marcie put to Devon the question that was never far from her mind. "Does he blame me for the accident?"
Devon had pressed her arm reassuringly.
"Never. Don't lay that kind of guilt on yourself.
Chase's quarrel is with fate, not you."
But now, as Marcie gazed into his face, which looked tormented even in repose, she wondered if he did in fact hold her responsible for his beloved Tanya's death.
"Chase," she whispered sorrowfully.
He didn't stir, and his breathing was deep
and even, indicating that the drug he had been given intravenously was working. Giving in to the desire she'd felt while lying in pain in her own hospital bed, Marcie gingerly ran her fingers through his dark hair, brushing back wavy strands that had fallen over his clammy forehead.
Even though he looked markedly older, he was still the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She had thought so the first day of kindergarten.
She distinctly remembered Miss
Kincannon's calling on him to introduce himself to the rest of the class and how proudly he had stood up and spoken his name. Marcie had been smitten. In all the years since, nothing had changed.
The mischievous, dark-haired little boy with the light-gray eyes, who had possessed outstanding leadership qualities and athletic prowess, had turned into quite a man. There was strength in his face and a stubborn pride in his square chin that bordered on belligerence, inherent, it seemed, to the Tyler men.
They were noted for their quick tempers and willingness to stand up for themselves. Chase's lower jaw bore a dark-purple bruise now.
Marcie shuddered to think how close he had come to having his skull crushed.
When he was standing, Chase Tyler topped most men by several inches, even those considered tall by normal standards. His shoulders were broad. Marcie marveled over their breadth now. They were bare, as was his chest. The upper portion of it had been left unshaven, and she was amazed by the abundance of dark, softly curling hair that covered it.
The tape that bound his cracked ribs stopped just shy of his nipples. Marcie caught herself staring at them, entranced because they were distended.
Thinking he must be cold, she reached for the sheet and pulled it up to just beneath his chin.
"Jeez, did he die?"
The screech so startled Marcie that she dropped the sheet and spun around. A young woman was standing just inside the threshold of the door. Her hand, weighted down with costume jewelry and outlandishly long artificial fingernails, was splayed across breasts struggling to be free of a tight, low-cut sweater.
A cheap, fake-fur coat was draped over her shoulders. The coat was longer than her skirt, which came only to mid thigh
Chase moaned in his sleep and shifted his legs beneath the sheet. "Be quiet!" Marcie hissed. "You'll disturb him. Who are you?
What do you want?"
"He's not dead?" the girl asked. In a manner
Marcie thought looked incredibly stupid, the woman rapidly blinked her wide, round eyes several times.
That was no small feat considering her eyelashes were gummy with mascara as thick and black as road tar.
"No, he's not dead. Just very badly hurt."
She assessed the girl from the top of her teased, silver hair to the toes of her bejeweled, silver boots.
"Are you a friend of Chase's?"
"Sort of." She shrugged off the fake fur. "I
was supposed to meet him at this bar where everybody goes after the rodeo. I was getting pissed because he didn't show, but then Pete— you know, the clown—said that Chase got trampled by a bull.
So I thought I ought to come check on him, see if he's okay, you know."
"I see."
"Did they say what's wrong with him?"
"Several of his ribs are broken, but he'll be all right."
"Oh, gee, that's good." Her eyes moved from the supine figure on the bed to Marcie. "Who've you?"