Once Upon a Cowboy
By Pamela Tracy
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A memory knocked.
Before Beth Armstrong had time to even think about opening the door to the past, she slammed on her brakes, hard. Her wheels slid and the car went sideways until she finally came to an abrupt stop facing the royal blue truck that looked hauntingly familiar.
The truck wasn't going anywhere. Not after the power skid that took it off–road, bouncing over an irrigation ditch and plowing into the McClanahans' fence.
Help me, Lord, and please let whoever is in there be all right– Don't let this be a fatality.
She pushed open her car's door and—with only the moon to witness her flight—managed to make it through the grass, then down and up the irrigation ditch. She climbed clumsily over one of the broken fence posts using the truck to steady herself.
The vehicle was caught in mangled barbed wire and still warm to the touch. The smell of gas and exhaust warred with the strong aroma of the McClanahans' hay field. She balanced on the shattered fence, trying to get the courage to move forward and wishing she had more than the glow from her headlights combined with the truck's taillights to assist her. As if answering her prayer, the truck's driver's side door opened, and the light from the inside dome gave her all the illumination she needed.
The memory stopped knocking. Just one look at what lay in the truck's bed—a gear bag and bull rope—opened the door to the past and let the memory in.
Joel McCreedy.
The prodigal son.
It had been more than eight years since he'd been the focus of her girlhood fantasies.
He didn't look like a fantasy now. He slouched forward against the steering wheel, his face turned her way. His eyes were closed, and a trickle of blood ran from a cut just above his left eye. She closed her eyes. Blood. Not good.
Opening her eyes, she reached in and gently touched his shoulder. "Joel, are you awake? Are you okay?" Her voice sounded loud in the silence of the moment. He didn't move at all. She looked at his chest to make sure it moved up and down. It did. He was still alive.
"Joel!"
He moaned, didn't open his eyes and then slumped forward. This time, his chest hit the horn. Beth nearly toppled over thanks to her precarious perch, before shouting again, this time over the noise, "Joel!"
Well, okay, she could holler Joel's name until the cows came home for all the good it would do. Not that he'd be able to hear her over the blare of his horn. Carefully, she nudged him back so he wasn't pushed against the steering wheel. Nothing changed, not the expression on his face or the stillness of his body.
Roanoke had one ambulance, and she could get him to town faster than it could get here, most likely. "Joel, you might need to help a bit here."
His eyelids fluttered, and he grunted. She took both hands and shoved with all her strength. As he slowly adjusted to the passenger side, papers, folders and what looked like a Bible fell to the floorboard. "You weigh a ton, Joel," she muttered.
"And that's just my aching head," he moaned.
Good, at least he was conscious and somewhat lucid. When he was finally settled on the passenger side, she let out her breath. She got behind the wheel and tried closing the door—no such luck—so she buckled her seat belt and put his truck in Reverse.
One thing about old, old trucks. They were made of pure steel. Backing up, Beth managed to destroy a bit more of the McClanahans' fence. She bounced over the irrigation ditch and skidded only a bit on the dirt road as she aimed for traction and headed into town, stopping just long enough to turn off her own car's headlights and grab her purse, before hurrying back to Joel's truck.
He hadn't moved.
With one hand clutching the door closed and the other clasped tight on the steering wheel, she made it maybe half a mile before Joel finally stirred again and turned to look at her. In the shadows, she couldn't see his eyes, but she knew they were a deep brown and full of hurt.
She had a million questions and not all of them had to do with his health. Joel McCreedy, the prodigal son, back in Roanoke, Iowa. He must have just arrived, because if he'd been here a day or two, she'd have known.
She braced herself and let the driver's side door swing open. Then, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and hit the zero. She should have done that first thing. After a moment, an operator came on and Beth asked for hospital emergency. Once she'd warned them about what to expect, she hung up and tossed her cell phone on the dash. It promptly slid to the ground. Forcing the door to close again and holding it tightly, she again looked at the man slumped next to her, suddenly aware of the feel of his weight leaning against her right arm.
His forehead hadn't been hot, but his body was. She could feel it through her sleeve. His blue T–shirt was tight against a rock hard chest. Jeans covered legs so long they reached the passenger side door.
His eyes remained shut, but a tiny bit of color had returned to his face. The trickle of blood started to drip off his chin and onto his shirt.
As if to remind her not to look there, not to dwell on the blood, the truck hit a bump, and Beth's head almost hit the roof.
For the next half hour, until lights shimmered in the distance and the town came into view, Beth concentrated on keeping the driver's side door shut, listening to make sure Joel still breathed and making it to town. Easing up on the gas, Beth passed the convenience store and small motel beyond the Welcome to Roanoke, Iowa sign. The hospital was just a few blocks in. Joel finally twitched a little, shifting his weight away from her, but instead of feeling relief that he was finally giving her space, she felt loss.
Not what she needed.
Joel McCreedy was no longer the boy she remembered. But he was still the man most of the town wanted to forget.
In the scheme of things, a little blood and a wicked headache were the least of Joel McCreedy's problems.
Nothing was going as planned. This wasn't how he had imagined his homecoming. Even in his wildest nightmares— and after riding a good draw named Homeless a few weeks ago, he'd had some pretty wild ones—he'd not figured on being turned away from his childhood home, wrecking his beloved truck and then being escorted to the hospital by a gorgeous female.
He was lucky she'd been on the deserted road that late at night and was willing to stop.
"We almost there?" he asked, careful not to move his head.
Waves of pain were just one more unwelcome reminder of a lousy evening.
"Five minutes," she answered, not wasting words. He liked that.
She obviously knew him, had called him by name, and knew her way around Roanoke. If it didn't hurt so much to talk, he'd ask her name. Instead, he concentrated on keeping his head still and gritting his teeth every time she hit a bump.
"When did you get back, Joel?"
Joel closed his eyes. He'd made it to Solitaire Farm sometime this evening. How long ago? Thirty minutes? An hour? Two? Did it matter?
"This evening," he finally answered. The sky had already turned to night when his beloved, aged 1958 royal blue Ford truck idled in front of the sign reading Solitaire Farm. A home he'd turned his back on almost a decade ago and that had now turned its back on him.
No more questions followed. Maybe she figured from his short answers that he wasn't up for conversation.
Truth was, he wasn't up for much of anything else, either. He'd left New Mexico yesterday, pretty much driving straight through. He'd caught a catnap or two at rest stops. Still, he'd had almost twenty–four hours of sitting in one position, trying to ignore the pain in his back and the pain in his heart.
Without the rodeo, where did he belong?
They reached the tiny Roanoke hospital. She managed to hit the curb as she pulled into the parking lot, and then skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room doors.
More medical bills, great.
There wasn't but five dollars in his pocket. He did, however, already have a folder full of medical expenses—with more to come—and a stack of unpaid credit card bills. The debt and his need for family were about to increase.
He'd waited too long and now instead of a hero's welcome and a bank account guaranteed to make his older brother sit up and take notice, Joel had his tail between his legs.
The legs that weren't strong enough to allow him to walk into the emergency room alone. Instead, he had to lean on a young woman whose name he couldn't recall and a hospital attendant he recognized from his high school graduating class.
Kyle Tuckee was the attendant's name. He'd been two years ahead of Joel and a second stringer for the football team. He seemed to move a lot faster now, sprinting from the emergency room door to Joel's truck.
Through the glass doors, Joel also recognized the woman manning the front desk. She'd been a friend of his mother's. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of Joel, quickly recovered and hurried to assist. She opened a swinging door and soon Joel was escorted into a tiny room with a bed and chair.
"What happened? When did Joel get home?" Delores Pea–body asked, helping him into the bed and reaching for a blood pressure cuff.
Joel closed his eyes. Nausea kept him from answering, but his hearing still worked.
"I don't know how long he's been back," his rescuer said. She really was quite beautiful, with blond hair just reaching her shoulders and a compact body. He was tempted to open his eyes again, just to get another look. Unfortunately, she wasn't done talking. "And he's not with me, not really, and please don't tell my mother that I'm the one who brought him here. I just happened to see him drive off the road."
Joel's interest was piqued, but before the women could s...