Patti Standard - Say You'll Stay And Marry Me

She got up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “I still owe you for the last one.”

“I told you, it’s on the house.”

“Not this time. And not for your work this time, either. I expect a hefty bill for all this.”

Mac lowered his arms and grinned at her as he wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ll get out my adding machine.”

She went through the open door into the gas station, the whining of the lowering lift audible as she pulled open the foggy glass front to the soda case. “What kind does your dad like?” she asked Michael, who was at the cash register.

Before he could answer, Mac’s shout ricocheted from the garage, followed by an ominous thud—then silence. Her eyes met the startled boy’s. He sprang to his feet at the same time she turned, and together they raced into the garage.

“Mac?”

“Dad?”

Her truck was in the middle of the floor, innocently resting on its four wheels, but Mac was nowhere in sight.

“Mac?” Sara called again.

She rounded the truck, Michael at her heels, so close that he bumped into her when she stopped abruptly. Mac half-sat, half-lay on the cement, propped on his elbows, staring at his leg, his face pasty white. Sara’s stomach did a flip as her gaze followed his and she saw the way his boot twisted outward at an unnatural angle.

He looked at her with a small, rueful smile. “It looks like this is going to be an expensive job for me, too.”

Chapter Two

“Broken?” Sara asked, surprised at how calm she sounded since her heart thundered against her ribs, jolted by adrenaline.

“I’d say so.” Mac was obviously trying to sound in control, as well, but the roughness in his voice belied the calm words.

“Michael, go get your mother, please.” She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and hoped it felt reassuring in spite of its tremble. “We better get your dad to a hospital.”

Michael shook his head. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound came out. His mouth opened and closed futilely.

“His mother and I are divorced.” A sheen of perspiration covered Mac’s forehead. “Michael, I’m okay. Run up to the barn and tell Jacob to get down here—see if we can pry me off this floor. Go on, now. I’m okay.”

Movement returned to the boy’s stunned limbs and he was out of the garage in a flash, running as if his father’s life depended on it.

Sara looked helplessly at Mac. “What happened?” She moved to kneel beside him, afraid to touch him but instinctively wanting to be close.

“Tire caught my boot when she came off the lift.”

Sara looked at his twisted foot, horrified. “You mean my truck landed on your foot?”

“Just the tip of my boot, but it knocked me off balance.” He joined her in staring at his foot, now free of the tire. “Leg went one way, foot went the other.”

She felt sick at the thought and her stomach lurched again. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is!” She reached toward him, then pulled back, her hand wavering in the air. “You were doing the code of the west thing, with the hat and spurs and all, just like Zane Grey, and look what happened! This is all my fault. Here, let me help you—”

Mac was trying to push himself up by sliding his hands forward a fraction at a time.

She could tell the movement was excruciating. She tried to support his back without jarring his leg. “Better?”

He nodded, a jerky little bob as if he was afraid of any larger movement. “Thanks. Now, what’s all this about Zane Grey?”

Before she could answer, she heard the thud of running feet, then two boys dashed into the garage, breathless.

“Jeez.” Jacob appeared older than his brother but had the same straight brown hair and country-scrubbed look, like he’d been hung to dry in the sun. His looks were at odds with the strong barnyard odor that clung to him, and Sara guessed he’d been mucking those same stalls Michael had worried would be assigned to him.

“Is it broken?” He echoed Sara’s words.

“Yeah. Call the Swansons and ask Libby to drive me into Dutch Creek.”

Jacob shook his head. “They’re in Cheyenne, remember? The Cattlemen’s Association meeting.”

“Well, call the Reeds then. See if Robby can—”

“They’re in Cheyenne, too. At the—”

“Right, the Cattlemen’s Association meeting.” Mac’s shoulders were rigid with tension.

“I can drive you, Dad,” the boy offered.

“No way.”

“Come on,” Jacob pleaded. “I’m fourteen. This is an emergency, for cripe’s sake. I’ll go real slow. I can do it, Dad.”

“Jacob, you don’t have a license. You can drive around the ranch all you want but you’re not going on the highway, and I don’t feel like having this discussion right now. Try Joe over at—”

“Is my truck fixed?” Sara interrupted.

All three turned to her in surprise, as if they’d forgotten she still knelt beside Mac, her hand touching his back.

Mac said, “It’s all set.”

“Then, gentlemen, let’s help your father up and see if we can maneuver him into the cab.” It was the least she could do, she thought. This was all her fault. She should have replaced those hoses in Denver. The truck should have been perfect before she left Laura’s. Perfect.

She stood and eyed the boys, both several inches taller than her own five-foot-five and quite a few pounds heavier. “One on each side,” she directed, “and let him put all his weight on your shoulders until he gets his good leg under him.”

Mac immediately protested, “Sara, we can manage. I’ll just call one of the neighbors and—”

“It sounds like they’re all in Cheyenne to me, and besides, I’m headed for Dutch Creek, anyway.” She smiled. “I’ll just push you out the door in the hospital parking lot. You won’t even slow me down.”

Mac’s answering grin was weak. “Since you put it that way, thank you.”

“Thank me once we get you up. I don’t think this is going to be pleasant. Ready, boys?”

Hesitant but determined, they positioned themselves beside their father. Mac put an arm around each shoulder and slowly, carefully, they stood, lifting him to his feet.

Sara could almost hear his teeth grind as he tried not to yell when his broken ankle shifted and the weight of his boot pulled on it. He blanched again and his jaw twitched spasmodically.

“Are you okay?”

Mac grunted and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, hissing between clenched teeth, “Let’s go.”

With a half-hop, half-shuffle, the boys helped him around the pickup to where she held open the passenger door. Mac put his good foot on the running board and managed to heave himself sideways onto the seat, leaving both legs stuck out the door.

Michael appeared near tears as he watched his father inch backward, dragging his injured foot inside the cab bit by bit.

“Michael,” Sara said to the younger boy, hoping to distract him, “see if you can find something soft for your father to rest that foot on. It might swell less if it’s propped up.”

“There’s cushions on those chairs next to the counter,” he suggested, already turning.

“That should do the trick. Speaking of swelling, I wonder if we should try to get that boot off.”

“Don’t touch it!” It was clear Mac’s shout was involuntary.

She glanced at the heavy leather boot, obviously of high quality in spite of signs of wear. “I’d hate for them to have to cut off your boot, that’s all.”

“Nobody’s cutting off my boot!” He sounded even more alarmed. “Michael, you just put those pillows on the floorboard there and I’ll be fine.” He’d backed up until he was almost opposite the steering wheel, his legs still pointed toward the door. Michael piled three canvas-covered pillows on the floor, and slowly Mac slid his injured left leg off the seat to rest on the stack, as straight as the cramped confines of the cab allowed. He bent his right leg at the knee and pulled it in far enough for Sara to shut the door.