The cowboys in the room groaned, but not Beau. Whether or not Sam rode a bull again wasn’t his worry.
“Doctor Mahaat is taking over his case. I have to fly home. I’ll be consulting from there. I wish you the best.”
“Thanks.” When the little man left, he looked at Doc. “Who’s Mahaat?”
“Another neurosurgeon.” Doc met his eyes. “I’m staying here, Beau. With you and Sam. Until you take him home.”
“I— “ His throat closed up again, and he was gettin’ damned tired of it. “Thanks, Doc. I guess I’d best go see how to wash up.”
Like he didn’t know. How many guys had he seen in the damned ICU over the last few years?
He headed in, stopping at the nurse’s station to introduce himself. A big old boy came up shook his hand. “I’m Jim. I’m one of your night shift nurses. Kelly’s the other.”
“Howdy.” Beau tried and failed to summon a smile. “Where can I wash up?”
“There’s the sink. Then you’ll wear a mask. You have even the slightest cold symptom, you tell us, okay?” Jim met his eyes. “No matter what the surgeons say, they can hear you, they know.”
“I’m not sick at all. I just had a check up.” And he’d cleaned up, put on the clean clothes Balta had brought. He washed his hands until they were red, got his mask on.
They showed him the little room Sam was in. It was a private stall kinda, just enough room for the bed, the machines, a fold-out chair thing and one plastic chair. Sam lay on the bed, the in and out sound of the breathing machine whooshing. Other things beeped and booped, but Beau ignored them.
Sam looked… Beau just wanted to cry. He was shaved and taped and bandaged. There were bruises on bruises, then there was that iodine stain. Both arms were taped full of tubes and there was a catheter bag at the foot of the bed, attached to what seemed like a mile of tube.
Shit, he didn’t know where to touch.
He reached out, wrapped his fingers around Sammy’s thumb, rubbing those familiar calluses.
“Hey, Poot. They tell me to talk to you, so I guess I will. Like you did that time I was all laid up with that broken pelvis.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Balta and Joa and Coke and Dillon had finally gone back to the hotel. The ICU had settled some for the night, a four-car pileup having brought in a flurry of activity about an hour before. Now, though, with the door to Sam’s little cubicle closed and the lights down low for the night shift, all he could hear was the rhythmic rasp of the ventilator and the beep of machines.
It was too damned quiet, now. It gave him too much time to think.
Sammy looked… God, he looked like he was gonna die. He really did. Beau tried not to think on it, because it made him want to puke. It made his head hurt, made his damned eyes swimmy.
Shit, Balta had damned near killed him, crying like that. Balta never let anything get to him.
Never.
The door pushed open, that little airlock sound enough to make him jump. “Mr. Lafitte?”
“Yeah?” He raised his head, staring at Kelly, the little nurse.
“You have someone here to see you. He’s out in the waiting room. I have to check all of Mr. Bell’s vitals, anyway.”
“Sure. Okay.” He guessed if she had to kick him out, it was good that someone was there. Maybe someone had brought him some coffee.
He went to the waiting room, which was full of the family of the car crash folks, and searched for the cowboy hat. That would be the distinguishing thing for his visitor.
There. Adam Taggart stood off to one side, turning his off-white cowboy hat in his hands. Oh, fuck. Tag.
Beau’s knees sagged a little, but he went on over, reaching out without even thinking about it. “Tag…”
Adam grabbed him, the hat clunking against his back when Adam gave him the biggest damned bear hug. “Jesus, how is he?”
“He’s tore up, Tag. Bad.”
