Cowboy Delirium

“They let me go in for a couple of minutes,” Becky said. “The nurse thought I might calm her.” Her voice lowered. “Even drugged, she’s restless and jerky, and there was nothing I could say to change that.”

Zach leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Did she ask about Jaime?”

“No. She’s still drifting in and out of sleep from the drugs they’re giving her, but the nurse said she’d called out Jaime’s name when she was sleeping. I’m sure that as soon as she’s fully alert, she’ll demand answers.”

Zach wished to hell they had some. “As soon as the doctor finishes with us, we have to find a place to talk in private.”

Bart nodded. “I’m for that. I think we should reconsider our current strategy.”

They’d agreed to hold off on calling in the cops or the FBI until they heard the kidnappers’ demands, but no one had expected the wait to be this long.

Zach’s phone rang. The group grew instantly quiet, though there was no real reason to think the kidnappers had his cell number. He answered.

“Buerto,” he said out loud, so that they would know to whom he was talking. They stared at him, their anxiety tangible.

“I’ve heard from the kidnappers,” Buerto said.

“Why did they call you?”

“I guess because I was with her when they abducted her.”

“What did they say?”

“It would be better if we could talk about this in person.”

”I’m at the hospital waiting to talk to Mom’s cardiologist.”

“I’m already on my way to the ranch, so I can be at the hospital in about fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.”

“I don’t see the point in waiting that long.”

“Can you talk freely?”

“I can listen.”

“Not good enough. The deal they want is complicated.”

Zach’s irritation level skyrocketed. The kidnappers should have come directly to the family. Where did they get off dealing with some guy who was a stranger to all of them?

“Call me the second you arrive at the hospital.”

“Naturally,” Buerto answered and then quickly broke the connection. Zach returned his phone to the clip at his waist.

“Contact?” Langston asked, carefully choosing his words so that no one outside the family would know they were talking about a kidnapping.

“Yeah. Through Buerto. He’s on his way here right now.”

“Why call him?” Becky asked, her question echoing his own. “He’s not family.”

Doctor Gathrite joined them before Zach was forced to admit he had no answer to that question.

“There’s a small conference room down the hall we can use,” the doctor said. “It will be more private there.”

They followed him to a room that smelled of stale coffee. The furniture was limited to a half dozen metal folding chairs and a table barely big enough for the five of them to squeeze around. A counter on the back wall held a coffee maker that had long since finished brewing.

Dr. Gathrite stood back for them to enter, then offered coffee, which only Langston accepted. The cardiologist settled in a chair at the head of the table.

Zach found a spot to stand against the side wall. He was too keyed up to sit.

“Do you have the results of the tests, Doctor?” Becky asked.

“We do, at least enough to make a few diagnostic assessments. The good news is there’s no significant blockage in the arteries that feed the heart and no sign of a blood clot.”

“I don’t understand,” Bart said. “If there’s no blockage, what caused the coronary attack?”

“The attack appears to have been caused by a sudden spasm, one so intense that it cut off the blood flow through the artery. That’s far less common than an attack brought on by cardiovascular disease or a clot, but it sometimes happens in otherwise heart-healthy individuals.”

Langston set his coffee cup on the table in front of him. “Then you think her heart attack was brought on by stress?”

“There are factors other than emotional or physical trauma that can cause a spasm, such as certain drugs or exposure to extreme weather conditions. But, yes, in your mother’s case, the evidence points to stress.”

Becky clasped her hands in front of her. “How much damage was there to her heart?”

“You can count your blessings there, too,” Dr. Gathrite said. “The permanent damage is minimal. The issue now is having her avoid any additional emotional trauma.”

Which was basically impossible unless they were able to arrange Jaime’s safe return quickly. Zach only half listened to the rest of the doctor’s spiel and the details of treatment. Zach’s concern for his mother was a given, but the only way he could help her, or Jaime, was to acquire Jaime’s safe release.

His cell phone vibrated and he checked the caller ID. Buerto. Zach excused himself and went into the hall to take the call.

Langston followed him. “This is a family dilemma, Zach. Bart, Matt and I will be with you when you meet with Buerto.”

He clapped his oldest brother on the back. “I never doubted for a minute that you would.”

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BEFORE Jaime heard from either of her kidnappers again, though she could hear them talking through the thin walls. Occasionally she heard a door slam or Luke’s snorting laugh.

She’d tried her door a couple of times, but it was locked tight. And the boards that had been nailed over the window wouldn’t budge. She’d need something on the order of a pickax to remove them. If she ever got outside this room again, she’d snoop to see what kind of tools she could find.

Finally, Rio opened the door and ordered her out to eat. She followed him to the kitchen. Luke lay on the sofa, his bare feet hanging over the edge. His gun was on a homemade coffee table instead of tucked inside his shoulder holster. It was the only good sign.

“I made you a sandwich,” Rio said, pushing a plate toward her. “It’s not much, but it will keep you going.”

She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and returned to the table, choosing a chair that made it easy to watch Luke and the gun. It was almost as if he were taunting her with it, deliberately tempting her to steal it.

The sandwich was a couple of slices of white bread smeared with a spicy mustard and wrapped around a piece of tasteless luncheon meat. She chewed and choked it down with a sip of lukewarm bottled water.

The two men barely spoke to each other as she ate, but when they did, the growing tension between them crackled like flames in a pile of dry leaves. Had she caused or merely added to the friction? She suspected it was the latter.

Luke looked disgustingly disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and stained from the breakfast she’d dumped in his lap. The underarms of his shirt were circled with perspiration. A glob of what looked to be dried mustard stuck to the stubble of whiskers on his chin.