have AC?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph.” The tall, slender man with a shock of white hair and an impressive handlebar mustache wandered to a sagging brown recliner. A massive Maine coon cat took up the entire seat. He hefted it up to toss onto the sofa, then settled into his chair. “Have a seat.”
The offended cat glared before starting a tongue bath.
Effie chose a simple oak rocker, unsure how to broach the matter that had brought her here.
“How is Mabel? I trust she’s okay?” Interesting. Far from being the monster Mabel had portrayed, Wallace seemed cordial enough—at least once he’d confirmed she wasn’t witnessing or selling unwanted items.
“She’s good.”
“Does she talk much about me?” He leaned forward. “The last time we met at the Grange Hall, we’d both had a few spirits and I’m afraid I may have said something to offend her.”
“I’m sure not.” So much for Mabel’s claim to never imbibe. “In fact, she’s the one who suggested I come over, to—”
“Does she want me to come for supper? I’m available most any night of the week. My grandson’s living with me, so he’d probably enjoy a good meal, too. Lord knows, neither one of us cooks.”
“Actually—” now Effie was leaning in “—would your grandson happen to be named Marsh?”
“Yes. Why?”
She forced a deep breath. “I’m not sure how to say this, but I was working on our roof when I spied a horse carrying a man slumped in his saddle. Making a long story short, the man’s hand was a mess, and showed signs of having been snake bit. I called an ambulance, and paramedics took him into La Junta.” She fished Marsh’s wallet from her back pocket, along with his broken wedding ring. “He should be fine, but—”
“Take me to him.” He stood, holding out his hands for his grandson’s things.
“E-excuse me?” She gave him the two items.
“I don’t drive, so you’ll have to take me to him.”
“Oh—sure. Have trouble seeing?”
“Hell, no.” He’d already stood and took a black leather cowboy hat from a rack next to the front door. “I got so many damned speeding tickets that the law revoked my license. Don’t get it back till next month.”
* * *
THE ANGEL HAD RETURNED.
Marsh winced from the too-bright lights when he tried focusing on her. She sat quietly by his bedside, staring down at him as if he was no longer a man, but a museum exhibit.
We’ve administered forty-six units of antivenin. It’s too soon to give an accurate prognosis of the probability of lasting damage.
That didn’t sound good.
In fact, nothing sounded good except for the angel’s soft, nonsensical hum. The tune soothed him in a way that he didn’t understand, but welcomed.
His wife hadn’t been in to see him, but his son had assumed a large role in Marsh’s dreams.
The two of them played Frisbee with the dog and made sand castles on the beach. Tucker must not have drowned, because his smile reminded Marsh of his reason for living. His job as a SEAL was important, but being a dad was his life’s true calling.
“Are you awake?” the angel asked.
“I—I think so?” His mouth was so dry that his tongue protested forming even the simple words. Do you have water? He might have asked the question, or maybe he’d only touched his lips?
“Thirsty? I’m not sure if you’re allowed to have anything to drink. There was talk of you having surgery, but I’ll go see.” She stood, as if planning to leave.
“No,” he said. “Stay.”
“I’ll be right back. Let me find a nurse.”
“Stay. Meet my son.” He locked his gaze with hers and more than anything, he needed that connection. Everything was messed up in his head. But if she promised not to leave him, he just might be okay.
* * *
EFFIE TIGHTENED HER grip on the ICU waiting room’s courtesy phone. After Effie had explained that their mystery man was Wallace’s grandson, Mabel asked about Marsh’s condition.
“Wish I had better news to report, but he’s still pretty out of it.”
“What does his doctor say?”
“Nothing specific. He’s not in danger of dying, but his hand’s in bad shape.”
“I’ll say more prayers for him. You stay as long as you need. The kids are all fine.”
“Thank you for watching them. Since Wallace lost his license due to a few too many speeding tickets, I don’t feel right leaving either of them.”
“You’re right to stay with Marsh. The poor soul’s grandfather might be a heathen, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty by association.”
After chatting with Remington for a few minutes—Colt still wasn’t talking to her—Effie hung up and wandered her way back to Marsh’s room.
Poor Wallace. The man had been downgraded from scoundrel to heathen.
She froze outside Marsh’s room, hesitant to interrupt his lovable grandfather, who sat near the head of the bed. The last of the day’s sun filtered through generous windows, softening the harsh reality of Marsh’s grim situation.
Where was the man’s wife? The son he’d earlier mentioned?
A machine beeped in time with Marsh’s painfully slow pulse. His bed was surrounded by IVs pumping him full of fluids and different medicines. His handsome features twitched from the venom. The sight broke her heart, yet she couldn’t look away. Hash marks had been drawn up his arm to show how far the poison advanced.
Maybe because she’d been the one to find him, Effie felt an inexplicable connection to the man. A fierce protective streak made her irrationally angry at his wife, who should have been by his side.
Unable to remain silent, she approached Wallace. “If you have contact information, I don’t mind calling Marsh’s wife. I’m sure having his family here would be a comfort.”
“You’re a sweet gal, but it might be best for you to steer clear of messy family business.”
“Oh. Okay.” The cramped room only had one chair, so she leaned against the far wall, trying to make sense of Wallace’s cryptic words. Messy family business? She’d experienced more than her fair share of that. Were Marsh and his wife divorced? Had his ex been given sole custody of their son?
As bothersome as her boys could sometimes be, Effie couldn’t imagine a life without
