Western Man Page 5

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  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.

  As she walked down the hospital corridor carrying Ridge’s small satchel of belongings, her high-heeled sandals made attention-getting clicks. Sharon was conscious of the looks that came her way. The faint smile that touched her mouth was in remembrance of the entirely different looks she and her mother had received the day before.

  All the doors to the hospital rooms were open, but when she approached Ridge’s room, she saw it was shut. A nurse darted out, her expression grim, and went hurrying past Sharon toward the ward station. Before the door closed behind the nurse, Sharon caught the spate of angry voices. She quickened her stride to find out what was going on.

  As she pushed the door open, she heard the tightly angry but controlled voice of a second nurse in the room. “Since you insist on being difficult, Mr. Halliday, I’ve sent Nurse Gaines to fetch the orderlies—”

  “You can send her to hell for all I care!” Ridge snarled in response. “I told you I don’t want that damned thing in my arm!”

  Shutting the door quickly, Sharon moved forward a little hesitantly, trying to take lightning stock of the situation. Ridge was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. The blanket had been pulled loose and partially wrapped around his waist, still leaving most of his legs bare. He was glaring at the flushed nurse who was glaring back.

  “Do not swear at me, Mr. Halliday!” she reproved him sharply. “I am not obliged to take that kind of abuse from you or any patient!”

  “Then kindly get the hell out of here,” Ridge declared with a dangerously thin smile.

  “Ridge!” Sharon stepped forward, drawing attention to herself. She was more than a little stunned that this man, who had the virile charm to wind this nurse around his finger, had resorted to crudeness and anger. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  The look he flashed her held impatience rather than welcome. “It’s about time somebody showed up,” he muttered. “These damned fools took my clothes. All I’ve got to wear is that damned flapping gown.”

  The dismissive gesture of his hand turned Sharon’s gaze to the crumpled hospital gown on the floor, obviously thrown there by Ridge.

  “What have you got there?” His glance fell on the satchel she was carrying.

  “I brought some of your things. Mom and I—”

  Ridge didn’t give her a chance to finish. “Did you pack me some clothes?’

  “Yes—”

  “Bring it here,” he ordered peremptorily and extended an impatiently flicking hand to take it from her. “I’m getting out of this place,” Ridge added as she brought it within his reach.

  “You’re in no condition—” Sharon started to pull the satchel away, but he snatched it from her before she could succeed. A rush of irritation swept through her. Like the nurse, she was fast losing her patience with him.

  “All I’ve got is some bruises and a couple of busted ribs,” he muttered. When he tried to turn slightly to open the satchel, he winced and went pale at the shafting pain that took his breath away. A moment later, he was pulling out the clean shirt and pants she’d packed for him. “Hell, I’ve broken my arm one day and rode the next. I’m not going to stay in here so they can keep me doped up with those damned drugs ‘til I don’t know up from down.”

  “I don’t think you know up from down now,” Sharon declared grimly, suspecting there was just enough of the pain-killing drug in his system for him to be numbed to the severity of his pain. “And you didn’t break your arm. You are badly bruised inside.”

  But Ridge wasn’t listening. The agonizing effort of getting his arms into the shirt sleeves had beaded his forehead and upper lip with perspiration. He was taking short, quick breaths to avoid aggravating the discomfort of his broken ribs. When he shook out his pants and tried to put a leg into them, the subsequent pain was so intense he groaned aloud and fell back on an elbow, swearing savagely under his breath. Involuntarily Sharon took a step toward the bed, feeling sorry for him even though she knew he was bringing it all on himself.

  His half-closed eyes caught her movement. Ridge struggled to sit up again, his features whitening with the effort. “Help me get these damned pants on,” he demanded through tightly clenched teeth.

  “I’m not going to help you.” Sharon steeled herself against the compassionate urges that tried to push her to his aid. “If you can’t put your pants on, you’ve got no business getting out of that bed.”

  Her logic angered him, lighting blue flames in his eyes. “All right, dammit, I’ll show you.” Ridge started all over again, the strain showing in the contortions of his face as he tentatively slid a bare foot into the pants leg.

  Watching him, Sharon gritted her teeth so hard they hurt. He had to keep pausing to wait for the pain to subside. By the time he managed to get both legs into the pants, sweat was trickling down his neck. He slid off the edge of the bed to pull the pants over his hips and his legs nearly buckled under him.

  The nurse rushed forward to catch him, but Ridge had already braced an arm on the bed to support himself. “Mr. Halliday, please get back into bed,” the nurse urged with obvious concern.

  “Ridge, please,” Sharon added her voice to the nurse’s. It was clear to her that he was so weak and in so much pain that he could barely stand.

  He shrugged off the nurse’s supporting hands. “Just get away and let me get dressed.” The roughness was still in his voice, but it lacked its earlier strength.

  The door opened behind Sharon. She turned as the doctor came striding through, all brisk and professional. He was followed closely by the first nurse a
nd an orderly. The cavalry was coming to the rescue, and the good doctor was leading the charge. He didn’t stop until he confronted his adversary.

  “What’s going on here, Mr. Halliday?” he demanded sharply. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  “Wrong.” Ridge grabbed the bedrail for support and began inching along it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the doctor demanded with exasperation.

  “I’m trying to find my damned boots so I can get out of here,” Ridge muttered. “Where are they?”

  “In the closet with the rest of your clothes,” the doctor replied. “But you’re in no condition to be released. You need at least three days of total bedrest to give your body a chance to heal itself.”

  “If I’ve got to lie in bed for three days, I’ll do it back at the ranch. I’m not staying in this hospital.” Clutching his stomach he staggered to the closet door. Sharon saw the doctor wave aside the orderly when he made a move to stop Ridge. Once he had his boots, Ridge more or less fell into the vinyl chair in the corner.

  “It should be evident to you, Mr. Halliday, that you aren’t capable of taking care of yourself.” The doctor changed his confrontation tactics and attempted to reason with him. “You told me you lived alone. Who is going to fix your meals, give you your medicine, help you back and forth to the bathroom?”

  The question was met initially with silence as Ridge appeared to concede that he couldn’t manage alone. Then his blue gaze sought her out. “Sharon,” he concluded and stuck a foot into one of the cowboy boots, seemingly oblivious to the fact he wasn’t wearing socks. “She can stay at the house for a few days.”

  She opened her eyes a little wider at the way he took her agreement for granted, not even bothering to ask. The doctor appeared startled and glanced at Sharon as if just realizing there was a nonstaff member in the room. After a second’s hesitation, he shook his head grimly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Halliday, but I can’t agree to release you from the hospital,” he stated.