We’re halfway around the mountain when my phone rings. Shocked I still have service, I answer when I see it’s the hospital.
“Jessie?”
“Dr. Marshall?” I question, at the sound of his voice.Why is he calling me?If someone was sick, and they needed a nurse to fill in, the administrative nurse would call me, not him.
“Can you come to the hospital? It’s your grandmother.” I pull back on the reins, stopping Bear. “The ambulance called ahead—they think she’s had a heart attack.”
My heart pounds in my chest as his words sink in.
Gran.
Hospital.
Heart attack.
“W–what? Is she okay?” My voice trembles. I grip the reins so tightly, the leather digs into my palms.
Kacey rides up next to me, her brow furrowing in concern.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else, but I wanted to call you right away.”
The tone of his voice sets me on edge. I’ve heard this tone—it’s the same tone he uses to deliver bad news, life-changing news, to families. And never the good kind.
“Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up and turn to Kacey. “An ambulance is taking Gran to the hospital. They think she had a heart attack.”
Kacey sucks in a breath. “Oh my gosh. Okay, let’s head back. I’ll radio Carson. He can meet us with the truck.”
I nod and we take off.
Kacey uses the ranch radio to get ahold of Carson. We ride back down the trail as quickly as we safely can. Carson has the passenger door open and waiting when we come to a stop beside the truck.
“I’ll take her. Chet’s waiting at the barn. He’ll take the horses so you can get your dad and head into to town,” he informs Kacey, knowing she doesn’t handle hospitals well. She doesn’t argue.
I jump in the truck, and Carson gets us to town in record time. My brain thinks through the last time I saw her. It was just yesterday. She seemed fine—her normal self—sewing and drinking tea. Maybe it’s bad acid reflux. Sometimes in older people, that can be mistaken for heart attacks.
Carson throws the truck in park, and I jump out and run for the doors. I rush past the parked ambulance and into the ER with Carson on my heels. I spin in a circle, looking for Gran. A nurse hustles past me, nearly knocking into me.
“Time of death, 11:24 a.m.,” Dr. Marshall’s voice carries from across the room.
My heart stops as I whip around and see her. Still on the ambulance gurney, lifeless, with the doctor and nurses surrounding her bed, looking defeated.
No.
NO.
I run to her side. “Do something! Help her!” I yell at my co-workers. A nurse sniffles. Dr. Marshall clears his throat.
“I’m sorry, Jessie. She’s gone.”
“No, you’re wrong! Help me!” I cry, gripping her wrist for a pulse. I reach for the defibrillator, but Dr. Marshall steps in front of me.
“She’s gone, Jessie. I’m so sorry,” he says again, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
I turn back to her, ready to perform CPR, when callused hands and strong arms grip me.
Carson.
“Jessie,” he says, his voice rough and sadness. Tears well and spill over as he pulls me to his chest. I try to push away from him—refusing to believe she’s gone—but he holds me tight. I sob, crying out for her. He catches me when my legs fail, all the fight leaving my body.
