Her Cowboy Boss. Arlene James

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      “Basically, we watch him like a hawk,” Stark said. “We were sure lucky you woke me when you did.”

      Almost as one, the brother and sister said, “I don’t believe in luck.”

      That rocked Stark back. “You don’t believe in luck?”

      “Not a bit of it,” Meredith told him firmly. She smiled at her brother, saying, “We believe in divine providence.”

      Smiling, Rex wrapped an arm around his little sister’s shoulders and hugged her. “I thank God you walked in when you did.”

      Stark clamped his jaw. He was well aware of the Christian teaching of divine providence, but he didn’t believe it for a moment. To believe that God tended to the personal lives of the average person was to believe that God had allowed Stark’s family to die, and that Stark could not—would not—accept.

      He licked his lips and said, “Be that as it may, we’re working with a heap of negatives here. Encephalitis. Lymph node inflammation severe enough to cut off the air passage. And, from the sound of his breathing, pneumonia.”

      “Oh, no,” Rex said, pushing a hand over his face.

      “So that’s it?” Meredith demanded pugnaciously, parking her hands at her waist, and quite a neat little waist it was, too. In fact, she curved nicely in all the right places, which just made Stark want to run right out of there. “You’re going to recommend putting him down, aren’t you?”

      Stark was trying so hard not to look at her that he almost didn’t hear her. When her words finally registered, he welcomed them and the anger that they stirred. “No, Miss High-and-Mighty. I have to admit that his chances have diminished, but I’m not ready to give up on him yet. Are you?”

      “Of course not,” she retorted, sounding both relieved and affronted.

      “Good. Then you won’t mind babysitting him while I’m gone.” Stark reached down and snatched up his kit.

      “H-how long will you be away?” she asked.

      “I don’t know,” he all but snarled, shouldering the kit. The woman sure had a way of getting under his skin. He took a deep breath. “It depends on how many other patients I have.” He pulled two syringes from his shirt pocket and held them out to her. “One in the IV plug every four hours. There’s an extra IV bag next to my bedroll. Change it out when this one is down to the last mark. These big bags are tricky to estimate, so pull the bottom out like this to make sure how much is in it.” He demonstrated with both hands. “Watch the flow rate. If it dumps too fast, it’ll wash out all the medication, so check periodically.”

      Meredith nodded. “Got it.”

      “Don’t try to feed or water him today. If he starts to struggle, coughs or collapses, call me at once. Think you can handle all that?”

      “Yes. Absolutely.”

      “I hope so, because the alternative is to try to get him to a clinic, and, frankly, I doubt he’d survive the trip.”

      She looked stricken at that.

      Rex said, “I don’t think we should tell Dad just how bad it is. Not yet.”

      Meredith nodded, then looked at Stark as if asking for his input. The very idea made him break out in gooseflesh. He shook his head.

      “None of my business. I take care of the horse. Wes is your father. Y’all take care of him.”

      She looked to her brother, saying, “Whatever you think best.”

      Those words slugged Stark in the chest, echoing down through the years.

      Whatever you think best, sweetheart. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.

      Stark practically ran after that, getting out of there as fast as he could. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t escape the memories. Throwing his gear into his truck, he all but dove behind the wheel. Then he sat there for several long minutes, shuddering at the sounds in his mind of screeching tires and clanging metal. When at last the empty silence returned, he started the truck and, with shaking hands, went doggedly on his way. His lonely, tortured way.

      * * *

      “I’m sorry,” Dean argued quietly the next evening, his handsome blond head shaking. “I think you’re wrong.” A custom farmer, he’d come straight from the harvest to make his case, having neither showered nor eaten, so strongly did he feel. The weather forecast hinted at rain, which made for a long day for the harvesters. “When my granddad was ill, I learned quick that he resented more than anything for me and Grandma to try to protect him,” Dean said. “Grandpa said it robbed him of his pride and his manhood. Even though he was dying, I learned that the best thing I could do was sit down and talk man-to-man with him about whatever problems we were having.”

      “And you were, what,” Ann asked, sitting beside him on the porch swing, “all of fifteen? Those must’ve been tough times for you, darling.” She brushed dust from his knee.

      He nodded, wrapping his hand around hers. “They were. Now I have every hope that Wes is going to recover, but I’m not sure he’ll be happy if you keep this from him.”

      “I have to agree,” Ann said, but then she was so in love with her husband that he could say the moon was made of seaweed and she would at least try to believe it.

      Rex leaned against the porch railing, folding his arms. They’d convened this little family conference on the porch in order to be well out of Wes’s hearing, but they were still keeping their voices low. As he had recently proved, Wes was far from deaf.

      “Dad’s so weak,” Rex mused, “and he loves that old horse. I—I just don’t know if we should tell him how serious the situation is. I feel we need to give Dad as much incentive as we can to live right now.”

      “Maybe we could wait a day or two,” Callie suggested, sliding an arm around Rex’s waist.

      Somewhere in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound, exactly how Meredith felt, standing here surrounded on a moonless October night by her siblings and their spouses. Still, it was better than sitting locked in her apartment with only her cat for company.

      “Maybe Dr. Burns can give us some insight,” she said.

      “Why don’t you go ask him?” Ann suggested.

      Meredith caught—and ignored—the slightly suggestive undertone in her sister’s voice. “All right.” She turned away from the house. “He should’ve had time to make a full assessment of the horse by now.”

      He had arrived well over an hour earlier, his usual bag from the local diner in tow. At some point during the day, he had taken the time to shower, shave and change clothes. He’d even shown up wearing a different hat, a cleaner, better version of his usual black felt Stetson. The sight had done strange, unwelcome things to her breathing, so she’d scampered out of the stable as quickly as she could, but she wouldn’t let that keep her from seeking him out now. She might not like Stark Burns, but he was in no way a danger to her. She knew that, had always known it, by sheer instinct.

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