Wild Horses

“Sometimes Bridget puts too much sugar in that stuff,” Vern grumbled, “Doesn’t even taste like tea anymore. Tastes like—”

He stopped when he saw Carolyn’s face. “Caro?” He went to her side and put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Carolyn could hardly speak. She struggled to keep her chin from quivering, but her lips moved jerkily, and she had to choke out the news.

The caller had been Beverly’s husband, Sonny. He’d had to rush Beverly to the emergency ward that morning just before dawn. Doctors had performed an emergency caesarian.

The baby was undersized, and her skin had a bluish cast. Her heart had a serious defect.

Carolyn started to cry harder, but forced herself to tell the rest. Sonny said that little Carrie had an obstruction of the right ventricle. She’d been put in a special neonatal unit. She needed open-heart surgery as soon as possible. Without surgery, she could not survive.

Then Carolyn lost control, and Vern drew her into his arms, holding her tightly.

Mickey, stunned and feeling helpless, put her hand on Carolyn’s shoulder. Never before had she seen Carolyn break down completely. Never.

“They’ll try to operate tomorrow,” Carolyn sobbed. “But she’s—she’s so tiny. And Beverly doesn’t know yet. They haven’t told her how serious it is. Oh, Vern, I want to go to them now.”

“Then we’ll go.” Vern held her tighter.

As he stroked her hair and rubbed her back, his troubled brown eyes settled on Mickey. “Mick, call the airport, will you? Get us on the first flight out of here.”

“I want to get to Beverly,” Carolyn said. “And my grandbaby. I’ve got to.”

Mickey’s mind raced, searching for the best way to meet this crisis. “What if I call J.T.? Maybe he could fly you.”

J.T., Carolyn’s brother-in-law, was a pilot, with his own small jet.

Vern looked at her gratefully. “Bless you, Mick. I didn’t even think of J.T.”

“I’ll phone him,” Mickey said. “Then I’ll pack for you.”

J.T. NOT ONLY AGREED to fly Caro and Vern to Denver; he insisted on it. He would be ready to take off in an hour, and urged Mickey to just get them to his place. And so Mickey packed only two suitcases instead of the dozens Carolyn had so painstakingly planned.

Carolyn refused, superstitiously, to take any of the presents, especially the baby gifts. If the worst happened, it would be too unbearable to have them there, each like a pulsing wound.

Mickey drove Carolyn and Vern to J.T.’s ranch. As Carolyn climbed into the plane, she looked dazed. She wasn’t wearing her pink suit or pink shoes or carrying the big pink panda designed to make Beverly laugh.

Mickey noticed, sadly, that Carolyn had been right. Her hair was half gray and half blond. She had planned to get off the plane in Denver looking glamorous and confident, ready to buck up Beverly’s spirits. Instead, she would arrive wan, disheveled and shaken.

Mickey brooded on the unfairness of it all the way back to the Circle T. Carolyn, Vern, Beverly and Sonny were good people, kind and generous. Carolyn had been like a second mother to Mickey—no, in truth, she’d treated Mickey far better than Mickey’s own mother had. She had been Mickey’s salvation. And so had Vern.

As for Sonny, he was himself a doctor, easing suffering and saving lives. Beverly was a hospital administrator. She, too, had worked to serve and heal people. Why was their child stricken? Life wasn’t simply unjust, it was random and cruel.

Lost in these gloomy thoughts, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Mickey realized she’d forgotten something. Worry and sorrow had driven all else from her mind.

She was puzzled when she heard an unfamiliar-sounding car come up the drive and stop. Its door slammed, and someone mounted the front porch steps. The doorbell rang, buzzing like an impatient wasp.

Mickey stifled a swearword. Oh, no, she thought. Adam Duran. Who needed him at a time like this? And Carolyn had invited him to stay.

The last thing Mickey wanted at this point was to guest-sit a stranger and pretend to be hospitable. She stamped to the entrance foyer, feeling anything but welcoming. But Carolyn would want her to be gracious, so she tried to hide her irritation as she swung open the door.

She saw the man standing there, and she blinked in amazement.

Good grief, he’s gorgeous, she thought in confusion. This can’t be him.

But it was. “I’m Adam Duran,” he said. He had a low voice, slightly husky. “I’m here to see Carolyn Trent.”

He held out his hand. She grasped it. It was warm and seemed to vibrate in hers, as if his gave off an electrical charge.

He was six feet tall with unfashionably long hair that fell past his ears and curved in a thick forelock across his brow. The hair was dark blond, and he was as tanned as a construction worker. His eyes were azure-blue.

He was dressed casually, almost insolently so for someone on a legal errand. His jeans were faded. The cotton shirt, too, was washed out, laundered so often the fabric was thin.

Yes, she thought, slightly awed, he looked like someone who lived on a sun-drenched island, who swam in the ocean every day, who was a different breed of man altogether from the land-bound cattlemen she knew.

The only thing that seemed out of place was that he had on cowboy boots, well-worn black ones, scuffed and down at the heels. In his left hand he carried a battered duffel bag.

A giddy, fluttery sensation filled her with bewilderment. He was a striking man, but handsome men didn’t have this effect on her—ever.

The expression on her face must have gone odd. He looked at her more closely and frowned. “This is Carolyn Trent’s place?”

Mickey, embarrassed by her reaction, tried to seize control of herself. She’d been carrying her reading glasses, and thrust them on as if donning a protective mask. The lenses blurred her vision. This helped her regain control of herself. Dimmed and out of focus, he was not as disturbing.

“Yes,” she said in her crispest tone. “I’m Mrs. Trent’s secretary. She said you’d be here. Come in.”

He took a step closer then paused. The sea-blue eyes had a critical glint as he looked her up and down. “And your name is…?” he prompted.

Her smile felt stiff, forced. “Miss Nightingale. Michele Nightingale. Er, Mickey.”

“Miss Nightingale,” he repeated with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, opening the door more widely. “Please, come in.”

She stood well back so that his body wouldn’t brush hers as he stepped inside. He stopped in the middle of the foyer and looked about. The living room was gracious, yet homey.

“Nice place,” he said, but he had that same edge in his voice.

“I imagine you had a long trip,” Mickey said, primly as an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “May I get you something to drink? We have coffee, soft drinks, sweet tea, juice, beer, wine—the wine’s local. Made just down the road, in fact. Or water, if you’d prefer.”

“Water’s fine,” Adam said. His eyes drifted to a painting over the fireplace and lingered there. Mickey stole a glimpse at him over the top of her glasses. Most men, seeing that painting for the first time, were bewitched.

Adam Duran also seemed struck by it, but his expression was critical.

“That’s Beverly, Mrs. Trent’s daughter,” Mickey said, keeping her teacherlike tone. “She lives in Denver now.”

He said nothing, just kept staring at the portrait. Beverly looked stunning; she was the sort of woman men could fall in love with at first sight—even if their first sight of her was only a picture.

Mickey turned away sadly from the image, for it made her wonder how Beverly and Sonny were, and if Caro and Vern had reached Denver yet. How was Caro holding up? If anything happened to this baby, Carolyn would be shattered, destroyed—Mickey could not bear to think of it.