Darlene Scalera - The Cowboy And The Countess

He laid his head back against the propped pillow and closed his eyes. He saw the mountains in the bleached light of a high noon sun. He missed home. He missed Anna.

The door swung open. The man, his neck no longer inflated and now almost too thin for his large jaw, came back into the room. He smiled at K.C., but his features kept a nauseous cast.

Behind the man came a woman, her head held erect, her beauty carried like a brocaded mantle. She smiled full, colored lips at him. He nodded, courteous, curious. She was handsome, and he was intrigued but not drawn. Her beauty was too hallowed. Where was Anna?

The woman came to his bedside, her smile serene. She leaned over and touched her smooth cheek to his forehead. His brow furrowed against her glassy flesh. His skin felt tender, bruised.

“Oh, my darling.” It was between a song and a sigh. The sweep of the woman’s hair fell in a dark curve, curtaining K.C.’s vision so he only saw the lower half of the short man’s face. The man’s lips were pursed, triangling his jaw.

The woman straightened. The white-coated chorus of doctors had returned and was watching. The woman’s hand lay against his cheek. “You remember me, don’t you, darling?”

He looked up into bottle-green eyes, their whites iridescent with expectation. “Are you a friend of Anna’s?”

The woman’s touch tensed against his face. Her eyes deepened to emerald. With a slow, elegant twist of her neck, she turned to the short man at the end of the bed. “Who’s Anna?”

The man shrugged. “All he told me was he’s a cowboy named K.C.”

The woman’s head swiveled. She looked down at him. “K.C.?”

“Yes?”

Her hand made small strokes against his cheek. She was gimlet-eyed. Her teeth were tiny and glistening. “Who’s Anna?”

“The woman I love.”

Her hand stilled. He watched the muscles in her slim throat ripple.

“The woman you love?”

He nodded. “I’m going to marry her…if she’ll have me.”

The woman’s smile came back less full. Her hand stroked his cheek once. “Why would she say no to you?”

“She’s a countess.”

“A countess?” There was a quiver in her well-modulated tone.

“And I’m an ol’ cowpuncher.”

“An ol’ cowpuncher named K.C.,” the woman repeated. She stared at him. Her smile spread soft, indulgent.

He nodded.

“Your name isn’t Kent Landover?”

“In fact, ma’am, it is.”

“It is?” The woman threw a glance at the man at the end of the bed.

“That’s my given name—Kent Coleman Landover.” He winked at the woman, pleased she looked less upset, almost happy. “K.C., for short.”

The woman’s smile vanished. She straightened.

“He’s only been awake for a brief time,” advised the doctor holding the chart. “Any family?”

“His parents divorced when Kent was in high school. Father passed away about five years ago—heart attack,” the short man said.

“His mother is on her third or fourth marriage. I’ve lost count. She lives somewhere abroad—Denmark, Sweden, Norway,” the woman said. “One of those Scandinavian countries. She sends fabulous Icelandic sweaters at Christmas.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

The man and woman both shook their heads. “Only child,” the woman said.

“I knew three boys grew up on the Ponderosa Ranch in Nevada. One father, three different mothers.” K.C. rolled his eyes. The others stared at him.

He sat up. There was soreness when he moved, as if he’d sat too long in a cheap saddle. “I realize I must have been off my feed, doc, but I’m feeling spry now and ready to move on.”

From the corner of his eye K.C. saw the woman mouthing “off my feed.”

“When do you think I can move ’em up and head ’em out?”

“Move ’em up and head ’em out,” the woman’s lips formed.

The doctor came to the side of the bed. “How many fingers am I holding up, Kent?”

“Call me K.C. Everyone does.”

The doctor nodded. “Okay. How many fingers am I holding up, K.C.?”

K.C. smiled. “Three.”

The doctor touched his forehead. “Any headaches, dizziness, nausea?”

He shook his head.

The doctor pulled down the lower lid of his right eye, then his left. “Any double vision?”

“Nope. I’m ready to saddle up and be on my way.”

The doctor laid his fingertips against the inside of K.C.’s wrist. “Where would you be heading?”

K.C. looked to the window and the smog-shrouded cityscape. “I’m here to find Anna.”

“She lives here in L.A.?” The doctor lifted K.C.’s arm, bent it up and down at the elbow.

K.C. nodded. “Somewhere in one of those big mansions. Bel Air or Brentwood or the Hills. She’s a countess.”

“So you mentioned,” the doctor said. “And you’re here to find her?”

K.C. nodded once more.

“To ask her to marry you?”

K.C. looked around the room, at the strange faces he didn’t know. Still, he could see what they were thinking. “You all think I couldn’t drive nails in a snowbank, don’t you?”

Blank faces looked at him.

“It’s okay if you think the fodder isn’t full in the silo. It’s nothing I haven’t thought of myself. I mean, why would someone who has everything—fine looks, intelligence, wealth, breeding, not to mention the pick of the crop—marry someone the likes of me? You’re right. I’m crazy. Crazy in love with Anna. And crazy people do crazy things. So here I am, in La-La Land, to find her, to ask her to be my wife…and make me the happiest guy alive.”

The woman moved back from the bed.

“I know this might not make much sense to you all—”

A choking sound came from the woman.

“But if you’ll unhook me here—” he nodded toward the tube attached to his arm “—and pronounce me fine and dandy, I’ll thank you for your fine care and hospitality and be on my way.” He started to shift his weight off the bed.

The doctor laid a hand on his arm. “K.C., do you remember having an auto accident this morning?”

He looked at the doctor, then up at the circle of faces again. He leaned back, smiling with relief. “Is that why you all look so worried? Here I am, spouting away like a hot spring.” He started to sit up once more. “Again, I’ll thank you for your concern and care, but besides feeling as if a bronc got the better of me, I’m fine.” He pushed back the sheet.

Again the doctor’s hand pressed on his forearm. “K.C.—”

“Kent. Kent. His name is Kent.” The woman’s voice split the air.

K.C. looked at her anguished face. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to—”

“I’m not your ‘ma’am.’ Good God.” She came to the bed, grasped his hands. “I’m your fiancé.”

He pulled back from her imploring gaze. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but—”

“Kent,” the doctor interceded, “this morning you lost control of your vehicle and ended up in an embankment off I-5. Fortunately, your air bag engaged, and you suffered a few bruises and a concussion. However, a blow to the head often results in a loss of memory, a blocking out of critical personal information.”

“What’re you saying, Doc?”

“You’ve got amnesia.”

“Amnesia?”

“Most cases last only a few days or, at the most, a few weeks. The rate of recovery is often quite amazing during the first six months after the head trauma. Often the brain just needs time to recover from the impact. Impairments could begin to disappear within days. I’d like to schedule a few more tests, but preliminary indications suggest you can expect a full recovery.”

K.C. looked up at the white marble woman, the full-faced short man. He looked back at the doctor. “No one else was hurt, were they?”