Hideaway

“He’s a ‘ranch kid,’ and he’s got dark skin.”

“Hold it.” Clint made a show of covering his ears. “It isn’t politically correct for me to hear this.”

“You don’t like the term ranch kid?”

“You know what—”

“Deal with it. That’s the way it is here. When I came to Hideaway, I moved back twenty years in time—in some ways, more like fifty. Many of the natives have been here for two or three generations. They hate change. Many of them are still leery of me because I’m divorced with no children of my own. And it’s no coincidence that everyone within a ten-mile radius of Hideaway looks askance at Jason because he has a deeper tan than most of the natives.”

“Then move somewhere else. Take the kids with you. You can afford that.”

Dane shook his head. “I belong here.”

Clint snorted. “I suppose God told you that.”

Dane ignored his friend’s cynical tone. “We all have our place in life. I’ve found mine.” He watched with growing interest as Willy introduced Gavin Farmer to Gordy, the most cantankerous cow of the herd, through the barn lot fence. Gordy was short for Gordina—the name of a bossy woman he had admired in his church.

“A perfect place,” Clint murmured. “Taming wild teenagers to become model citizens? Putting up with Austin Barlow every time he wants to make you a target for one of his special vendettas?”

“I hate to admit this, but I’m enjoying the challenge of those vendettas. Austin isn’t invincible.” Dane gestured toward Gordy. The cow stood close to the fence, allowing Gavin to scratch her ear. “Would you look at that? I’ve never seen her do that before.”

“The kid has a way with animals. He worked with his father in his veterinarian practice.”

“I knew from the report his father was a vet, but it didn’t give much information about the mother,” Dane said. “Any insights there?”

“All I know is the parents were long estranged, and that she had her own demanding job. Wouldn’t even leave it long enough to collect her son when his father was killed in the wreck last year. Social services stepped in, suggested foster care, placed him and he ran away. His mother finally, reluctantly, agreed to take him, but three weeks after he moved in with her, their house burned down.”

“None of that’s in the report.”

“We don’t always put everything in those reports, because we don’t always have all the information we need.”

“So what does the kid’s mother do?”

“She’s a manager for a fast-food chain down in Arkansas. She does pretty well, seems efficient at her job, but when it came to Gavin, she couldn’t cope.”

“So she claimed Gavin deliberately set fire to their house?” Dane exclaimed. “Does she have any reason to believe that?”

“Only an episode when he accidentally set the living room on fire when he was a child.”

“Nothing since then?”

“Not on record.”

Dane gave him a quick look. “That isn’t reassuring.”

“He’s an innocent kid caught in a mess, Dane.”

“You’re sure? I’ve got other kids to think about, and the town is always watching—”

“Give him some time and see what you think,” Clint said. “Anyway, his mom isn’t able to keep him. I feel he needs a mother, though. Frankly, you weren’t my first choice for him—you don’t even have a woman on the ranch, unless you count Gordy.”

“She’s a good mama. Her calves always grow well.”

“Think you can work one of your miracles, Dane?”

“I don’t work miracles.”

“You seem to know Somebody who does.”

Cheyenne wrote discharge orders for two patients, washed her hands and replaced her mask. When she entered Susan’s exam room again, no other medical personnel were there.

Cheyenne closed the door behind her and went to her sister’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

Susan nodded. “Better. It doesn’t hurt as much. By the way, what’s with the mask?”

“Flu.” Cheyenne slumped onto the stool beside the bed. “I don’t want to risk passing it on to a patient.” She tapped the mask with her fingers. “This is just a precaution. I don’t feel too bad.” Liar. You feel wretched. “Your lab reports all look good, but let’s get a repeat EKG before I discharge you. Now that your heart rate is slower and you aren’t shaking so badly, we’ll get a better reading.”

Susan nodded.

“Speaking of shaking,” Cheyenne said, “what could have set this off? I’ve never known you to have a panic attack before.”

“So you think that is what happened?”

A question instead of an answer. “I don’t know for sure, but that could have been what disturbed your mitral valve. I’ve already scheduled an outpatient echo for you for next Monday.”

“Oh, Sis, do we have to do that? I don’t really want Kirk to know about—”

“We have to make sure that valve isn’t going to cause any major problems.” Cheyenne touched Susan’s left hand. “I’m not taking any chances with you. If you’re worried about Kirk knowing, I’ll have the hospital send me the bill.” But why shouldn’t Susan’s husband know?

“No, don’t do that. It’s…it isn’t that bad.”

Cheyenne leaned forward. If it wasn’t that bad, why was Susan suddenly avoiding eye contact? “I know you don’t like to take medication, but I’ve ordered something to calm you down.”

“A tranquilizer?”

“Yes. You won’t have to worry about any more needles, since you already have the IV. It won’t fix the problem, but it might help make everything more bearable until we can find the real culprit.” But of course the real culprit was Kirk Warden—Cheyenne had known that for some time.

Susan swallowed, then nodded. “Could you give me something…to take with me?”

“I’ll write you a script.” Cheyenne hesitated. “You’ll need a ride home. I’d let you take my car, but you can’t drive under the influence of this medication. If you can’t call Kirk—”

“I’ll get a taxi. Can I work? I have an appointment with a client whose house I’m decorating this afternoon. She’s a neighbor who lives just three houses west of us, so I won’t have to drive there.”

“Sure, you can work…if your client doesn’t mind a little drug-induced creativity.” Cheyenne got up, battling a wave of nausea. “Since you’re getting a taxi, I’ll dispense some tablets for you here so you won’t have to stop at a pharmacy.”

“Thanks.” Still no eye contact.

Cheyenne leaned closer. “Honey, what’s going on with you?”