Rough Stock(3)

As the older woman approached, though, she looked pained, and Rowan wondered if she was in more trouble than she thought. She racked her brain trying to think what else she could’ve done—even with her crazy schedule of day care and babysitters she was never late, hardly ever called in sick.

Her stomach roiled, much like the driver’s, as she looked down at the paperwork in her hand. A chart. She’d screwed up a chart because she was tired. Patients died that way. It happened more often than it should have in nursing. It should never happen at all. Judging by the look on Sandy’s face, the determined line of the woman’s thin lips, this was bad.

“Was it—?” Rowan couldn’t think who she’d dispensed meds to tonight. Which cases? Which drugs? Nothing had required a second key. Nothing had needed secondary approval. Nothing was fatal, even in incorrect doses. “Was it—?”

“It’s your father, Rowan,” Sandy told her grimly.

Rowan’s mouth froze, half-open. She was wide awake now, adrenaline coursing through her.

“Your sister called. Rowan, he’s had a heart attack. He’s at the medical center in Star Valley. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

Rowan’s head swam. “How bad is it?” she demanded. “Have they already given thrombolytics? Are they—?”

“I don’t know.”

Rowan glared at her.

“I’m not lying. Your sister didn’t know. They only just wheeled him in a few minutes ago. Rowan, I’m sorry.”

Rowan passed Sandy the chart and the pen with her shaking hand. It dropped on the floor with a clatter and rolled away on the slightly uneven tile. “I have to go,” she declared.

Sandy was already nodding.

Rowan darted down the hall, not bothering to clock out. She passed the rattled family from the vehicle accident, huddled together in the corner looking worn and confused. She felt a kinship toward them, as late night visits to the emergency room so often did to people. This time, though, she was on the wrong side—not giving news but getting it—and having nothing but unanswered questions to show for it.

The drive to her apartment was quick and easy this time of night. She gunned the engine into the empty spot closest to her door, spinning her tires on the unsalted slush. She managed to bring the whole thing to a stop just before she hit the curb and jumped out while the whole car was shaking.

Moira gave a small cry and leapt off the couch as Rowan burst through the door, keys in hand, fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry!” Rowan gasped. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Oh my God! What’s wrong?”

Rowan had to pull herself together, relying on her training to keep herself calm as she explained the situation to the twenty-year-old babysitter.

Moira understood right away and began gathering her things to leave early.

Rowan pulled out her wallet and frowned at its meager contents. Normally she paid the girl on Fridays, but she doubted that they’d be home by the end of the week. She didn’t want to owe the woman money. Rowan had been broke too many times herself. Stifling a sigh, she pulled some bills out and offered them.

Moira took them with a rueful smile and the uncomfortable gratitude that came when one poor person paid another out of pocket.

Rowan tried not to think about the cost of the unexpected trip. She showed Moira out and headed straight to her bedroom, where she drew out her tattered suitcase and laid it on the bed. In went jeans and sweaters, haphazard, unfolded. She shoved her toothbrush in the side pocket then stared at the bulging container. Without realizing, she’d packed almost all her clothes. She didn’t have that many.

She stuffed Willow’s clean clothes from the laundry basket into the worn pink Disney Princess backpack and loaded it all into the car, letting the little girl sleep as long as possible. Then, for one brief moment in all the chaos, Rowan stood at the front of her almost-five-year-old’s bed, watching her sleep peacefully.

She wished for the millionth time that she had family in Cheyenne, a place to leave Willow so the little girl wouldn’t be subjected to all this. But that had been the point in coming to Cheyenne, that no one would know them. And though it was still Wyoming, and Rowan got the occasional side eye for being a single mother, tongues wagged less in Cheyenne than in Star Valley.

In four years, Rowan had managed to keep her trips back to the farm restricted to summer vacation and Christmas (if the weather was good). Willow loved the farm but had never been into town.

With everything falling apart around them, she hoped to God she could keep the girl hidden away.

Rowan finally roused her with a gentle shake. “Baby,” she said quietly. “Baby, wake up.”

Willow groaned and turned away.

“Sweetie, you have to get up,” Rowan insisted. “We have to go.”

The little girl opened her eyes and squinted. “Mama,” she protested. “It’s dark out.”

“I know, baby,” said Rowan, lifting Willow up. “But we have to go. We have to get you dressed then get in the car.”

Willow’s nose wrinkled as though the idea of trudging outside, in the cold, and the dark, was distasteful.

Rowan agreed.

The car was already warmed up by the time she put Willow in her booster seat. The little girl gazed up at her with soulful brown eyes that haunted Rowan sometimes, though she tried never to show it. “Where are we going, Mama?”

“To the farm, baby.”

Willow’s eyes lit up. “To the farm? With Kinka? And Pop-Pop?”

Rowan hesitated, not knowing what to say. “Yes,” she finally replied. “To the farm.” She figured that was enough for now.

The drive was long and Rowan was forced to white-knuckle it all the way along the highway that had once been dubbed the Snow Chi Minh Trail. Drift fences had reduced the danger of icy conditions these days, but Rowan was still on constant watch for antelope, which despite their diminutive size could create an unbelievable amount of damage when hitting one with a car. Driving at night on the near-deserted roads of Wyoming’s open country was never easy or recommended. The only people on the road this late at night were long-haul truckers, and even they were few and far between.

Rowan stayed under the speed limit, stopping for gas in Laramie, then again in Rock Springs, just to get a Coke and keep herself awake and racking up the credit card she’d worked so hard to pay off just last fall. Willow was bundled up and under her favorite Dora the Explorer blanket, so Rowan rolled the driver’s-side window down and let the cold night air keep her alert.

They reached the medical center a little before noon, and Rowan slid her Toyota into the space closest to the ER doors that wasn’t handicapped. She unbelted Willow, hoisted the little girl onto her shoulder, and hurried along the sidewalk.

As the glass doors whispered shut behind her, she instinctively tugged down Willow’s hood, covering her sleeping daughter’s face as she carried her inside. She located the lobby’s small reception desk and headed straight for it, identification badge in hand. “Mac Archer,” she said as she slid it across the counter.

The badge worked as well as any enchanted talisman, gaining Rowan access to her father’s chart and intake information. The duty nurse handed it back with a matter-of-fact nod. “Paul Renner is in with him, prepping him for the surgery.”

“Paul Renner?” Rowan’s eyebrows lifted.

“He’s the anesthesiologist on duty.”

Rowan blinked at the woman. It was odd to hear of an old classmate being a specialist, and an anesthesiologist no less, though she supposed if she’d been able to attend nursing school full-time from start to finish, she’d be further along in her own career by now. Paul Renner, though? Wow. Rowan had a vivid memory of Paul and a beer bong senior year. Honestly, though, she hadn’t been too much better, and she considered herself a decent nurse–when she wasn’t yelling at drunks.

“Paul Renner?” she repeated, hoping she didn’t reveal too much of her trepidation. Beggars, after all, couldn’t be choosers. She was grateful that a surgeon had even been on shift so as not to waste precious minutes life-lining him to Cheyenne or Denver.

“He’s good,” the nurse assured her.

Rowan nodded, taking the endorsement as gospel. She had no other choice. She was about to ask after Emma, if her sister had been given a quiet room to wait, when behind her someone called her name.

Troy, Emma’s husband, came toward her, two coffees in hand.

Rowan sighed in relief at seeing a friendly face. He led her to a small room, where Emma, eyes puffy and hair uncombed, grabbed her into a fierce hug, nearly crushing Willow between them.

Rowan finally stepped back and laid the girl down on a threadbare sofa, gratefully taking Troy’s offered coffee. He excused himself to get a replacement.

As the door closed behind him, Emma threw up her hands. “Five hours!” Rowan’s older sister explained, prompting Rowan to shush her for Willow’s sake.

Emma ducked her head guiltily, still incensed, though. “Five hours he laid in bed, thinking he pulled a muscle in his shoulder! Unbelievable! And who does he call then? Me! Not an ambulance. Not Dr. Webber. Me!”

Rowan grimaced. Their father was a master at ignoring the sometimes painfully obvious until it just went away.