Patricia Knoll - Another Chance for Daddy

The instant the accident was over, Brittnie had phoned for the police and paramedics while Becca had wrestled Jimmy’s door open to find him crying and disoriented. She had checked the cut on his head, then climbed in beside him to examine Clay, who had been unconscious, his side of the windshield crumpled into his lap and the water from the Monte Carlo’s radiator shooting like a fountain into the air, soaking them both through the broken window. Inanely, she noticed his beloved Stetson lying on the floor of the vehicle. It was crushed, soaked, and probably ruined.

Becca looked down at the stains of water and engine coolant that still marked her dress, wondering vaguely if they could ever be washed out. Not that it mattered when she thought about the injuries Clay had suffered.

For an unspeakable moment, she’d thought Clay was dead, and a welter of emotions had blasted through her terror before she had found his pulse, then bone-melting relief when she had realized he was alive, followed by tenderness when he had groggily awakened, rolled his head against her supporting arm, smiled, and said, “Hi, babe. What’s the matter?” Then he’d passed out again.

Clay had drifted in and out as the neighbors had rushed from their homes, Joey Emerson had stumbled, unhurt, from his car, and the emergency vehicles had arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing.

That had been more than an hour ago and this was the first moment she had found to think about the full impact of what had happened and what could have happened to her son and husband. Ex-husband, she reminded herself, realizing that it was an easy label to pin on Clay, but it wasn’t nearly as easy to hang that label on her feelings for him—especially after today’s trauma.

Becca looked up as she heard Brittnie bustling back into the room, grateful for the interruption of her troubled and confusing thoughts.

“Hi, Mom, Shannon,” she greeted them as she set two cups of coffee on the low table that stood in front of the sofa. “Here, Becca. Try some of this coffee. I know it looks like axle grease, but it might help perk you up.”

“Either that, or she’ll be awake all night,” Shannon responded, eyeing the black stuff.

“She will be anyway,” Brittnie pointed out.

She sat beside Shannon. With her dark blonde hair and lively gray eyes, she looked like the smaller, sunnier version of their father. She liked short skirts, music and dancing and fun of all types. If there was any fun to be had, Brittnie would be in the center of it. She had recently graduated from college with a degree in library science, but she certainly didn’t fit the stereotype of a librarian. She was far more likely to be the one making noise than the one quieting the noisemakers.

Becca took a sip from the foam cup. It tasted as bad as she remembered, but at least it gave her something to do with her hands. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up to see Dr. Kress approaching. Setting the cup down shakily, she stood to meet him.

Frank Kress was a tall, affable man in his fifties. He had a warm manner, but when he was worried about a patient, he became brisk and blunt. Becca braced herself and searched his face to see if it betrayed his mood. She remembered the staccato rap of his voice when he’d told them Hal Kelleher couldn’t live through the night—and the tears in his eyes when he spoke the words.

“Ah, Becca, there you are,” he said, spying her.

She felt herself relax when he gave her a slight smile and sat down in one of the chairs. He flexed his shoulders, rolled his head from side to side and gave a great sigh. “Well, honey, your menfolk have been mighty lucky. Jimmy’s going to have a headache for a couple of days and will probably whine about it the whole time. Clay has a concussion that needs to be watched carefully for at least a week and his leg is broken in two places. I’ve casted it, but he’d better take care of it or risk permanent injury. He’s got to stay here for a few days, then he can go home.”

Becca stared at him. “Home?” Clay had no home. He’d given up the apartment he had in Boulder. His furniture had been put in storage, the few belongings he carried with him from job to job had no doubt been packed and shipped to Venezuela. She knew exactly what arrangements had been made because she had been part of such moves for five years.

Becca shot a quick glance at her mother and sisters whose concerned expressions matched her own.

“Yes, home,” Dr. Kress continued gruffly. “I don’t know where that is for him, and I’ve already told you my opinion of this damned divorce. If your dad was alive he’d probably tan both your hides.”

Becca did, indeed, know his opinion. He’d expressed it in great detail when he’d treated her for bronchitis in January, then again when she’d had her annual physical last week.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” Mary Jane said, stepping forward and touching his shoulder. “We’ll take care of it.”

The doctor stood and gave a satisfied nod. “Good,” he said. “I was hoping I could depend on you. You can see Clay in a little while.”

After Dr. Kress had left, Becca gave her mother and sisters a despairing look, then sat down heavily on the sofa. “Clay can’t go back to Boulder. He gave up his apartment. He has no family to take care of him while he recovers. He is due to leave for Venezuela at the end of next week.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s going to make his flight,” Brittnie said in a dry tone.

Mary Jane looked at all three of her daughters, then focused on Becca. “He can come out to the ranch. I’ll take care of him.”

Becca stared at her. “Absolutely not You’re right in the middle of calving, soon you’ll be moving the herd... There’s no way you could take on a patient—and believe me, Clay is not the best of patients.”

“Yes,” Shannon broke in. “I remember the time he sprained his wrist. He couldn’t drive, work, or even cut his own meat.”

All four women winced in unison. They remembered all too well because it had happened on a visit home to the ranch. They had all suffered his bad temper together. They had understood that his surliness was due to his reluctance to be dependent on anyone, but that hadn’t made it easier to bear.

Before they could continue the discussion, a nurse approached and said Becca’s son was asking for her. With a quick wave to her family and a promise that she would come for them when they could see Jimmy, she hurried off to the pediatrics ward of the small hospital.

In his room, Jimmy sat up in bed, looking about with a frightened expression and tear-filled eyes. When he saw Becca, he started crying. She folded him into her arms and murmured reassurances. After a few minutes he calmed down so she eased him back against the pillow and kissed him.

“Where’s my daddy?” he asked as Becca stroked his dark hair away from his face.

“He’s in another room.”

“Well, tell him to come here. I wanna see him,” her son insisted in a petulant tone.

“He was hurt in the accident, too, remember? He has to stay in his bed.”

Jimmy moved restlessly. “I wanna go see him in his room.”

“Jimmy, honey, I haven’t even seen him myself yet.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, no, of course not.” Becca knew that her son still had vague memories of his grandfather’s death and even though he didn’t know exactly what death meant, he knew he didn’t like the way it made him feel when someone died.

“You and me can go see him.”

Becca sighed. She knew he wouldn’t rest until he had seen Clay and been reassured that he was all right. “I’ll go see if he feels like talking to us, but first I’ll get Grandma and Shannon and Brittnie to come in here with you.”