When Dreams Collide (21 page)

“I wanted to spare her from living the remainder of her life with a cripple. There’s still no guarantee I’ll walk again, that I’ll be able to operate the ranch like I…” Dusty didn’t divulge the other reason for breaking off the relationship with Susan. What he suspected was the true reason behind his shoddy behavior.

Could he admit those fears to Susan?

“That’s where you’re wrong, Dusty.” Brock reached for the file folder and flipped it open. “I’ve been checking out a few things, and they’re ready for your approval. A few other decisions have to be made after you provide your input on the idea. Between the two of us there’s no reason we can’t run this ranch together until you’re back in top form again.”

“You’re assuming that day will come.” Dusty waved off the idea. He still wouldn’t allow himself to believe in miracles, or modern medicine. His therapist encouraged him to work hard, assured him that anything was possible.

He wasn’t buying it.

“Regardless of how long it takes to get you back to good-as-new, this ranch is a living, breathing entity that isn’t standing idle while you’re doing it. It’s only mid-November, but if we intend to have the Happy Hooves program up and running by spring we’ve got to get our butts in gear. Finalize plans, hire and train staff during the next four months or so. Acquire and train more horses, purchase saddles and helmets and all the other equipment we’re going to need. One of the horse trainers I hired is a computer whiz, and the kid has been an invaluable help with all this.” Brock pointed at the sea of paper he’d spread across the kitchen table.

“Okay, I’ve given up on selling the ranch back to you. What do you have here anyway?” Dusty leaned his arms on the kitchen table.

The next hour passed quickly. The cookie plate and coffee pot emptied during Dusty’s intense discussions with Brock. The old guy knew his stuff, and Dusty couldn’t ignore the fact that he couldn’t have done a better job himself.

“Brock, I almost believe we’ll have Happy Hooves in operation by spring. Of course, the program won’t be on the level I envision, but it will be a good start. And it will be at least another year before we’ve collected enough funding to launch the charity end of things, but I’m excited.” Dusty felt a broad smile cross his face. His partner’s enthusiasm was as contagious as a flu bug in February.

“Between therapy sessions, I need you to contact the lady from the horse rescue farm and inquire about any available horses that would suit our purposes. Her husband emailed me a copy of the business plan he finalized for you. He’s sending printed copies by courier, and they should be here tomorrow morning. I’ll set up some appointments with possible contributors. Guys that I’ve served with on numerous committees and people I met through agricultural and equine organizations I’ve belonged to over the years. Once I get the word out these folks know several other influential people. This charity is going to succeed. I feel it in my old bones.” Brock grinned like a kid who’d been promised a special toy.

Dusty didn’t know what to say. His throat constricted and he fought to keep his emotions in check. A few months ago when he lay in the hospital bed unable to feel his legs or toes, he hadn’t believed this moment was possible. And now Brock’s hard work and positive outlook almost had him convinced that his dreams would come true, sooner or later.

Even if it turned out to be later, what more could he ask for?

“You know, Brock, when I bought your ranch and agreed to allow you to move into the old foreman’s cabin, I thought I was doing you a favor. I never could have imagined what the future held in store for me: the accident, the uncertainty, the long recovery. You stepping up and taking over, keeping the dream alive and running with it, is more than I expected. A man can’t buy that kind of friendship. But we’re more than friends, Brock. We’re family. What you’ve done is something any father would do to help a son in my situation. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.” Dusty reached out and shook Brock’s hand.

“I feel exactly the same way. You’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son. I couldn’t be prouder of you—what you’ve accomplished and what you’ll achieve in the future.” Brock bent over and hugged Dusty. “We make a great team, my boy. I thought perhaps you’d think I was overstepping, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you’re letting me do this for you.”

“I’m happy you didn’t fetch that checkbook. Regardless of what happens in the future, I think life is going to be rewarding. Even if I have to work behind the scenes instead of hands-on like I planned, I’m going to love watching this ranch thrive.” Dusty waved his hand. “Okay, enough of this soppy stuff. Let’s check the TV schedule and see what time the game starts tonight. Ms. Walters will let us eat in front of the tube anyway.”

“Game starts at seven, I think. I’m expecting a delivery from the feed store. I’ll be back around seven and watch the game with you.” Brock headed out the front door.

****

Next morning, Dusty wheeled his chair into the kitchen. “How are you today, Ms. Walters?”

“Good morning, Dusty.” His nurse stuck a pan of muffins into the oven. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Is there any coffee?”

“Yes, I just brewed a fresh pot. Thought you’d be coming for a cup as soon as the therapist finished up.”

“Brian just left. He worked me pretty hard this morning. Some days there’s a thin line between therapy and torture with that man. Today he taught me how to shift my body from the wheelchair to the sofa. I stood bearing my own weight on my legs for a full minute and then I took six steps across the floor before my legs gave out.” Dusty’s voice croaked, and he took a moment to collect himself. “Sometimes I believe I might actually walk again some day.”

“It will happen, Dusty. I firmly believe it.” She glanced over at him.

“Okay, I’ll be in the living room. Maybe I’ll practice moving out of my chair.”

“The muffins will be done in fifteen minutes. If you can wait that long, I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and a muffin and stand by while you practice to ensure you’re okay.”

“I appreciate that. Brock is dropping by with some resumes for me to review before we hire more staff. If you notice him come in, please bring him a coffee and muffin, too.”

“Will do, Dusty.”

“Thank you,” he called as he rolled his chair down the hallway.

He wheeled his way into the living room and slowly rolled his chair over to the loveseat. He’d mastered moving onto the living room sofa this morning when the therapist was here, and he decided there was no reason to wait for the nurse.

Dusty shifted to the edge of the wheelchair’s seat and reached for the cushion on the loveseat. He sidled over a little more, reached a little further, and then he felt himself tipping forward while the chair shot backward out from under him. When he toppled out of the chair, he clipped his head on the corner of the heavily-carved wooden coffee table. Immediately, his body crumpled in a heap on the hardwood floor.

Everything went black.

Chapter 16

“Dusty.”

He heard a male voice calling his name.

“Dusty.”

Same voice, more insistent.

Dusty attempted to open his eyes. His eyelids fluttered for a second and then stilled again. His head hurt. Actually, hurt was putting it mildly. If the throbbing pain indicated how hard he’d hit that table, his noggin might explode at any second.

At least this time he remembered what he’d done. Stupid, stupid, stupid. In his eagerness, he’d forgotten to set the brake on the wheelchair before attempting to transfer himself to the loveseat. He deserved every bit of pain he was experiencing right now for forgetting such an important first step.

“Dusty. Open your eyes.”

The authoritative male voice made it sound like an order. He didn’t know whether to open his eyes or salute. Finally, he managed to force his eyes open. Immediately, his stomach did a flip flop. A blurry physician in a white lab coat stood over him with what he thought was a stethoscope in his hand.

“Good afternoon. You’re awake.”

Dusty blinked and grimaced. “The room is too bright. Could you close the curtains?”

A nurse stuck a thermometer in his mouth. “Let’s examine you and make sure you’re going to live before we worry about the window coverings.”

He groaned and attempted to blink when the doctor pried his eye open and pointed a bright light in it. “Ouch,” he said, talking around the thermometer.

“Please keep your mouth closed,” ordered the nurse.

Dusty glowered. When had medical personnel gotten so bossy? He should have asked for painkillers for his headache instead of complaining about the damn curtains. Could this day get any worse? He’d nearly brained himself on a damn table, and now he was stuck here waiting for the doctor to finish his examination.

“Who brought me in here?”

The nurse flashed him the evil eye for talking again.

“An ambulance,” answered the doctor.

“Did anyone from the ranch come with me?” He heard a whiney little kid in his voice.

“Stop talking. You must keep your mouth shut. To answer your question, there’s an older gentleman in a plaid shirt waiting. Also a young woman dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. She’s a private duty nurse. I’ve seen her around here before. And there’s a pretty blonde lady in a pale gray business suit,” said the nurse.

Brock, Ms. Walters, and Susan. Same cast of characters as before.

A couple minutes later, the nurse finally removed the thermometer and checked the reading.

“On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain?” The doctor stood, waiting for an answer.

“A nine. Feels like my head might explode.” Dusty answered honestly, but he hoped the doctor didn’t think he was exaggerating. His head really hurt, damn it. His stomach did another acrobatic move. “And I might puke any minute.”

“The x-rays we took when you were first admitted, and still unconscious, confirmed a mild concussion,” reported the doctor. “We’re keeping you overnight and maybe another day if we deem it advisable. There doesn’t seem to be any damage done to your spine.”

“One advantage to landing on your head,” muttered Dusty. After only a few weeks at home, here he was admitted to the hospital again.

The doctor tucked Dusty’s chart under his arm. “That’s it for now. I’ve prescribed painkillers, and the nurses will report if your condition changes. I’ll send your visitors in to see you.”

Before Dusty could protest, the doctor slipped out the door. Brock, Susan and Ms. Walters rushed into his room.

“How are you doing, son?” asked Brock.

“I’m so happy to see you’re conscious.” Ms. Walters reached for his hand. “You scared the daylights out of me when I walked into the living room and found you out cold on the floor and bleeding profusely from your head.”

“Hi, Dusty. Brock called me. Are you okay?” Susan stood just inside the door.

“I’ll live. The doctors are keeping me overnight. I’ve got a concussion, my head hurts like hell, and I might puke at any second. But I’ll be home again tomorrow. At least, I hope so. I’m starting to hate hospitals.”

“Get in line,” whispered Susan. Her phone vibrated and she read the incoming text message.

“Don’t be too eager to leave the hospital. Don’t discharge yourself against doctor’s orders. Concussions aren’t something to be taken lightly.” Ms. Walters checked his IV.

“I’ve got to get back to the bank.” Susan stuffed her cell phone into her suit pocket.

“Now?” Brock frowned.

“A member of the Ellis Bank’s board of directors just passed away. Although the reason is unfortunate, a seat on the board just opened up,” answered Susan, sounding distracted to Dusty.

“Let her go. We all know how important her career is. She can’t wait to get in line for that board seat.” Dusty scowled and turned toward the wall.

*

Susan heard the venom in Dusty’s voice and recognized the face turning toward the wall gesture, a repeat of when he’d been injured in the accident. Nothing said ‘you’re dismissed’ like a cold shoulder. He truly didn’t understand her ambition. What on earth ever made her think they could have a future together?

She headed toward the door. “I’ll fill you in when I return. Call me if his condition changes, please.”

“Will do,” said Brock, from where he stood beside Dusty’s bed.

“Don’t I have a say in this?” asked Dusty, turning back and meeting Brock’s eyes.

“Not if you’re going to act like a spoiled little boy who isn’t getting everyone’s undivided attention.” Brock jabbed Dusty’s arm.

“Ouch.” Dusty glared at him.

“When I’m finished at the bank, I’ll call your cell, Brock.” Susan slipped out the door and raced to the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later, she charged through the front door of the Ellis Bank. The place sounded quiet as a morgue, which seemed fitting considering there’d been a death in the Ellis Bank family. She strode down the hallway to her office. “Come with me, please, Marie” Susan instructed her assistant as she passed her desk.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Sanders.” Marie hurried to catch up. “We couldn’t believe the news.”

“Thank you. It shocked all of us, but Ruby Ellis-Peterson was almost eighty. Apparently, she’d been ill for sometime, but Ruby kept her condition a secret from everyone except her closest family members. She brought feistiness to the bank’s board of directors meetings, and we’re all going to miss her dearly.”

“I sent flowers to her son’s home, and another bouquet to the bank’s main branch. I signed your name. I hope that was okay.”

“Thanks for doing that so quickly. I’m calling Catherine Branigan, and then I’ll require your assistance with something else, please.” Susan tossed her handbag on her desk.

Another staff member popped her head in the door and set a mug on the corner of the desk. “Here’s a cup of coffee, Ms. Sanders.”

“Thank you so much. You gals are the best.”

“I’ll be at my desk whenever you need me,” said Marie, following the other woman out.

Susan slumped into her executive chair, grabbed the desk phone’s receiver and punched in Catherine Branigan’s private number at the bank.