Doc didn’t seem to notice that Tammy was alive, which, surprisingly, was more than a little disappointing.
For the first time in her life, she wished that she’d packed more than jeans and Western shirts to wear. But she couldn’t have done that when she didn’t wear—or even own—anything else. Why waste her money or her closet space on stuff she wouldn’t have any use for on a working cattle ranch?
But maybe she should have considered something a little more…feminine, at least for times like this.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. She’d never been the least bit feminine, and had never regretted that fact.
Okay, so she’d regretted it once. In high school, she’d taken a liking to Bobby Hankin, who’d sat across from her in biology. He’d been nicer to her than most of the other guys, so she’d flirted with him—or at least, tried to. And it had backfired on her. She’d overheard him talking about it to a friend, saying that Tam-boy had taken a fancy to him. So from then on she’d set aside any girly or romantic thoughts.
She’d best remember that now. After all, she really ought to be more concerned about her reasons for being at the Flying B in the first place. Somewhere down the hall, Jasper J. “Tex” Byrd lay dying, and Tammy owed him her condolences, to say the least.
Ever since learning that the family had been called home to Buckshot Hills, she’d been champing at the bit to meet her grandfather for the very first time. And while she was certainly looking forward to doing that, she was also dead-set on introducing herself. It wouldn’t be so hard to think about her first introduction to Tex, if she wasn’t so focused on meeting the doctor who’d just stopped by to examine him.
Mike Sanchez removed the stethoscope from Tex Byrd’s chest, then took a seat in the chair beside the bed. “How are those pain meds I prescribed working for you?”
“They’re taking the edge off, I suppose.”
Mike could increase the dosage. He could also prescribe morphine, although he’d been holding off on that until closer to the end. Maybe it was time to consider it now. Tex would be having a lot of pain in upcoming days, and he was going to need all the help medical science could give him to deal with it.
The white-haired old rancher shifted his weight in the bed, as if trying to find a more comfortable spot. Then he grimaced, suggesting the move hadn’t helped much.
As he settled back on the pillows propping him up, he said, “My boys and grandchildren agreed to come home. Did I tell you that, Doc?”
“You’d mentioned extending the invitation to them.”
Tex closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I wasn’t sure what they’d tell me. That blasted feud had gone on for so damn long, I figured they might not give a rip about me or the Flying B.”
“For what it’s worth,” Mike said, “I think one of them just arrived.”
A smile stretched across the old man’s craggy face, softening the age lines and providing a hint of color to his wan complexion. “Oh, yeah? Who’d you see?”
“I’m not sure. A girl—or rather a woman, I guess. She’s probably about twenty, with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail of some kind. She was driving a little white pickup.”
“Was she all dolled up like a city girl? Or wearing pants like a tomboy?”
“She wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. And she had on a pair of worn denim jeans and a blue flannel shirt.”
“Then that must be Tammy,” Tex said, his tired gray eyes lighting up. “She’s William’s girl. And quite the cowboy, I hear. She can outride, outrope and outspit the best of ’em.”
Mike wouldn’t know about that. The girl certainly appeared to be a tomboy, but she was also petite. He wasn’t sure if she could hold her own or not.
“I thought you told me that you’d never met your grandchildren,” Mike said.
The old man gave a single shrug. “I’ve seen pictures of them. But only because I hired a private investigator a few years back. And now…” He lifted an aged, work-roughened, liver-spotted hand and plopped it down on the mattress. “I’m glad that I did. It would have been tough finding them all with only a short time to do it.”
Tex only had a few weeks left to live, although it was always hard to guess just how long for sure. The rancher was a tough old bird. And he might just will himself to stay alive long enough to put his family back together again.
From what Mike had heard, there’d been some huge family blowup over thirty years ago. Both of Tex’s boys had taken off in anger, leaving the Flying B and Buck-shot Hills far behind. But no one seemed to know any more details than that. And Doc didn’t plan to stick around any longer than he had to, so none of it really mattered to him.
Tex took a deep, weary breath, then slowly let it out. He’d be needing oxygen soon, so Mike would place the order so it would be on hand.
“You know,” the old man said, “I wasn’t happy about switching doctors. I’d hoped Doc Reynolds would be back in Buckshot Hills by now. But you seem to know your stuff—at least, for a young fellow fresh out of medical school.”
Mike never planned to fill in for the local doctor who was being treated for a brain tumor in Boston. But then again, Mike had a debt to repay. And spending six to nine months in Podunk, Texas, appeared to be the only way he could do that.
Practicing medicine—or rather, “doctoring folks”—was a heck of a lot different in a small town than it was in the city, but he was learning the ropes and doing the best he could do without the high-tech labs and specialty hospitals nearby. And after nearly four months in Buckshot Hills, he was counting down the days until he could return to Philadelphia.
Mike had grown up there, and his mom still worked as a housekeeper for George Ballard, a very wealthy businessman, a widower who’d never had children. George had taken a liking to Mike’s mom. Not in a romantic sense, but he’d come to respect her work ethic, her integrity and her loyalty. And that had led to yearly bonuses and unexpected paid vacations.
When George had learned that Mike had been accepted to medical school, he’d offered to foot the bill.
It had been a generous offer, an amazing one. And Mike had vowed to pay him back. But George wouldn’t consider it. Instead, he’d said, “If I ever have need of a personal physician, I’ll expect you to drop everything and come to my aid.”
Of course, Mike had readily agreed, although he hadn’t realized how serious the guy had been about the terms of the debt. Or that his benefactor would eventually become romantically involved with a woman whose beloved uncle, Stanley Reynolds, was an ailing country doctor in Texas.
Without the new treatment for a brain tumor that was only available at a specialized clinic on the east coast, Dr. Reynolds would die. But he’d refused to leave his patients in Buckshot Hills without medical care for the extended period of time his treatment was expected to take.
So George had called in the favor, asking Mike to spend the first six months after his residency covering for Dr. Reynolds.
While disappointed at the assignment—after
