Western Man (6 page)

The sight of the lowing cow in the pen checked the struggles of the yearling bull. Ridge shook off the loop as the yearling trotted eagerly past him through the open gate. A murmur of approval began to flow through the watching riders at the efficient job Ridge had made of it.

A moment later everything went wrong. The instant the yearling heard the squeak of the closing gate Scott had started to swing shut, it whirled and charged for that narrow gap of freedom. The cow followed her feral son.

In a lightning move, Ridge was out of the saddle and lending his strength to Scott’s in an effort to latch the gate before the pair forced it open. For a second, it looked as if they were going to succeed. Sharon was on her feet, unconsciously holding her breath.

The gate popped open. Scott was thrown to the side, but Ridge stumbled into the path of the yearling bull and the cow. He tried to dodge out of the way, but the wild-eyed bull hooked at him and drove him onto the ground with a butt of his head. Then both animals were trampling over him and running to rejoin the herd.

For a paralyzed instant, Sharon stood there, staring at Ridge and waiting for him to move out of the half-crumpled ball he’d made of himself on the ground. The sounds of others running toward the scene finally galvanized her into action.

Later, she couldn’t even remember climbing the fence and racing across the churned-up sod of the pen. She didn’t remember seeing any of the other riders—only her brother as he knelt over Ridge’s still form.

And her mother’s voice, saying, “Don’t move him.”

Then Sharon was kneeling on the ground next to him. Her hand felt cold as ice when she pressed it to the side of Ridge’s warm neck, seeking his pulse. Her own heart was pounding so loudly that she couldn’t hear his, but Sharon felt the vein throbbing beneath her fingers.

Ridge stirred, moaning. There was an ashen pallor to his skin beneath its burnt-in tan. He made an attempt to uncurl from his protective ball and roll onto his back. Her eyes widened at the sight of his torn shirt, the front nearly shredded by sharp, cloven hooves. His stomach was scraped raw, but there were no other obvious wounds.

Suddenly his glazed blue eyes looked directly into Sharon’s. “Help me up.” His voice was a hoarse, rasping sound, completely unrecognizable as belonging to him.

Somebody ventured the opinion, “Maybe he’s just got the wind knocked out of him.”

“Probably broke some ribs,” someone else said.

“You’d better lie still,” Sharon told him and glanced at her mother.

“No.” The protest was a guttural sound.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, her mother suggested, “Let’s see if we can’t roll him onto his back.”

“Help me up.” This time Ridge didn’t waste his throat-rough appeal on either Sharon or her mother, directing it instead at Scott who would understand the manly need to rise above injury.

Her mother placed a restraining hand on her son’s arm when he would have helped Ridge. She bent closer so that Ridge could see her face. “The pain. Where is the pain, Ridge?’ She spoke slowly and concisely.

The tightly clenched jaw, the betraying whiteness, and the trembling mouth that wouldn’t let any sound come out were all indications that he was in a great deal of pain. Both arms were clasped around his middle, holding his stomach.

It seemed a very long time before Ridge attempted to answer the question. “My gut—” his voice was so tight and hoarse that tears pricked Sharon’s eyes “—feels like it’s ... on fire.”

Mrs. Powell sent a concerned glance at her son.
“I think he’s hurt internally. Get one of the trucks in here and find some blankets.”

Somebody handed Sharon a canteen. She vaguely recalled hearing that a person bleeding internally shouldn’t drink. So she took her kerchief from her pocket and wetted it down, then used it to moisten Ridge’s lips and wipe some of the grime off his face. His features were twisted with pain that had him doubled up.

When the pickup roared into the pen, two cowboys hopped out of the rear bed before it came to a stop. Both carried blankets. Her mother instructed them to roll Ridge onto the blankets and use them as a stretcher to transport him to the back of the truck.

“Dammit! If somebody would just help me . . . , I can walk,” he protested in a hoarse rage.

“Hell, what difference will it make now?” someone wondered, sympathizing with Ridge’s pride.

“We’ll make a cradle and carry him,” Scott said and waved to a stocky, muscled cowboy to give him a hand.

Together they managed to get Ridge partially sitting up, and each slipped an arm under his legs. “Let me stand,” Ridge insisted. Most of his weight was already on their shoulders, so they let his feet slide slowly to the ground. Sharon gritted her teeth as he tried to take a step. His agony dominated his expression, and his face went whiter still. He sagged against the pair.

For a second, Sharon thought he’d lost consciousness again. He didn’t say a word when they
scooped him up and carried him carefully to the lowered tailgate of the pickup truck. More blankets were spread across some loose hay scattered over the truck bed to make a rough mattress.

“I’ll ride in back with Ridge,” Sharon told her mother and crawled hurriedly into the back of the truck.

His least painful position seemed to be partly hunched over, so Sharon propped herself against the back of the cab and told Scott to lay Ridge crosswise to her. She gathered him into her arms and rested his head against her shoulder.

“It’s a long ride into town,” Scott warned her. “Your arms are going to get tired holding him.”

“We need some blankets to wrap around him,” she said, ignoring his comment, perfectly aware it was true. But her body would be a better cushion to absorb the bumpy ride than the straw bed.

“Are you all settled in back there?” Her mother had the door on the driver’s side opened.

“Yes.” Sharon nodded and smoothed the thick mahogany-colored hair off Ridge’s forehead.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Scott vaulted over the side of the truck bed to the ground.

“Sharon and I can manage,” her mother replied.

Only once did Ridge stir during the interminable ride to the hospital. Between the engine noise and the rushing wind, Sharon couldn’t understand Ridge’s unintelligible mutter, so she simply hugged him closer and tucked the blankets more tightly around him.

When the attendants at the emergency entrance whisked him away on a stretcher, it felt as if some part of her had been taken. Her aching arms were suddenly very empty, and her body missed the hard, punishing weight of his.

Both she and her mother were sidetracked from following the stretcher into the emergency room by a nurse. Between them, they were able to supply most of the information the admitting nurse needed for the multitude of hospital forms. Sharon found herself signing the list of valuables—jewelry, wallet, and the like—that had been removed from his person while Ridge was being wheeled to some other part of the hospital.

“X-ray,” the nurse informed her with a benign smile. “Are you his fiancèe?”

“No . . . just a friend,” Sharon replied.

In the waiting room, Sharon and her mother each drank a cup of bitter black coffee from a dispensing machine and leafed endlessly through tattered magazines. Each time any uniformed person went by, Sharon tensed, expecting the doctor to arrive and advise them of Ridge’s condition. It was the not knowing that was so terrible and wearing on the nerves—the uncertainty about the extent of his injuries.

“I didn’t know it was like this,” she murmured to her mother. “No one has ever been sick or hurt before—no one I knew well.”

“He’s going to be all right,” her mother smiled in understanding.

“I keep telling myself that,” Sharon managed a rueful copy of that smile.

“Can you imagine what we must look like?” Amusement suddenly gleamed in the green eyes.

Suddenly Sharon noticed her mother’s floppy-brimmed cowboy hat, with wisps of hair sticking out from it like a witch’s coiffure, the baggy shirt, and the scruffy, manure-stained cowboy boots. Sharon covered her mouth to smother the laugh that bubbled from her throat, aware she probably didn’t look any better.

It was such a welcome release of tension that both of them started to titter, which succeeded in drawing curious looks at the pair of laughing loonys.

“Maybe we’d better find the ladies’ room and make ourselves presentable,” her mother suggested between laughing gasps for breath.

After Sharon had brushed the wisps of hay and dust from her jeans, tucked her shirt neatly inside the waistband, and removed her hat to comb her honey-brown hair, there was infinite improvement. Magically, her mother produced a tube of lipstick from her pocket to add the finishing touch to both their transformations.

They returned to the waiting room just as the doctor walked in. “Mrs. Powell?” He glanced questioningly at the older of the two jean-clad women with cowboy hats in hand.

“Yes,” she nodded.

There was an efficient, scrubbed-clean look about the balding doctor with the shining face. Although he was slender and spare with silver wire-rimmed glasses, there was something about him that reminded Sharon of a roly-poly Santa Claus. Maybe it was his round cheeks and beaming smile.

“How is Ridge—Mr. Halliday?” she rushed the question, not giving the doctor a chance to impart the information.

“My daughter, Sharon,” her mother explained when the doctor gave her a questioning look. “My husband and I own the ranch next to Mr. Halliday’s. Ridge has practically been a second son to us.”

“He’s a very lucky man,” the doctor declared. “There is evidence of some mild internal bleeding
but it appears to be the result of some rather severe bruising of his internal organs rather than any perforations. You might refer to the loss as seepage—as when you scrape your skin and draw blood. Outside of that, he has a broken rib and two that are cracked.”

A shiver of relief ran down Sharon’s spine. “I was afraid—” she stopped and changed what she had been about to say “—he was in so much pain.”

“I didn’t mean to minimize the amount of pain he’ll suffer,” the doctor cautioned. “The bruising is very severe. It’s a miracle nothing was ruptured. Naturally I’ll want to keep him in the hospital a few days and monitor his condition.”

“But—” It sounded more serious than he had first indicated.

He held up a calming hand. “There has been some bleeding. We want to make certain it doesn’t recur—and we want to keep watch for any formation of blood clots. It’s a precautionary measure.”

“I see,” she said, slightly reassured. “May we see him?”

The doctor nodded affirmatively. “For a few minutes. He’s been given medication so he can rest.”

When they entered Ridge’s room and Sharon saw him, there was something incongruous about such a vital, healthy-looking male specimen lying in a hospital bed with tubes running into his veins. The fiery lights in his darkly brown hair appeared subdued in this setting. His blue eyes were such a
focal point of his features that Sharon noticed the darkness of his thick brows and long lashes for the first time—because his eyes were closed.

She moved quietly to the side of the bed, unaware that her mother didn’t step beyond the doorway. The lower part of his chest was strapped in white bandages, obviously support for his ribs. His bronze shoulders and arms were uncovered. Sharon lifted the blanket to draw it up around his chest and noticed the discoloration already showing through the raw, scraped redness of his stomach. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. She laid the blanket across his chest.

His eyelids flickered, then slowly opened. There was a faraway, dreamy quality to his look when Ridge focused on her. She guessed he was high on some pain-killer.

“Told you I could stand,” he declared in a slurring whisper. Then his mouth curved in that reckless smile she knew so well.

“I guess I should have listened to you.” She went along with whatever dream he was having.

“Damn right.” His eyelids seemed to grow too heavy for him to hold open. A wince flashed across his face, proving the drug had only dulled the pain, not killed it. “Hurts.”

“I know it does,” Sharon agreed. “Try to get some sleep, Ridge.”

His eyes were closed and she thought he had drifted into that other state. But when she started to straighten away from the bed, his hand closed on her wrist.

“Talk to me,” he insisted.

“About what?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t know.” His head moved to one side of the pillow in some mute protest. “Never been . . . stomped on like this before. Not like this.”

“You’re going to be all right,” she assured him, and realized he was fighting the drug, not wanting to let go of his wavering stream of consciousness.

“. . . gave me something,” he muttered with an angry frown. “... told them . . . didn’t want it. . . . wouldn’t listen.”

“Sssh.” Sharon murmured things, soothing words she might have used to calm a green horse she was training. The content was unimportant; only the steady softness of her voice mattered. Her wrist was still imprisoned in his grip, but his rough fingers had loosened their circle. He was breathing deeper, slower. Lightly she took hold of his hand loosely clasping her wrist. “You can let go now, Ridge.”

His fingers uncurled as Sharon lifted her wrist free. A look of disappointment flickered across his features, then they smoothed out into an expressionless mask. She retreated from the bed and tiptoed to the door to join her mother.

“He’s finally sleeping,” she whispered. “We might as well go.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed. “I spoke to the nurse a few minutes ago. She said the doctor had left instructions to keep him sedated through the night, so there’s little point in coming back this evening to see him.”

“He’ll need his razor, a robe, and some clean clothes. We can collect them when we go back to Latigo and I’ll bring them in with me when I visit him tomorrow,” Sharon murmured with a last glance at the bed and the man in it. “I’m sure he can get by until then.”

To make up for her less-than-feminine appearance when Ridge had been admitted to the hospital, Sharon took extra interest in her choice of dress the next afternoon. She selected one of her favorite dresses, made of yards of soft, peach-colored material gathered in at the waist by a wide belt. It had a peasant-style, elastic neckline and long, full sleeves banded tightly at the wrist. Her throat was bare of any necklace to detract from the creamy smoothness of her skin, and her tawny hair glistened in soft curls that brushed the tops of her shoulders.