Page 147 of Captivated

Robert’s face was pale. “They’ll tell me. Thank fuck we both have medical power of attorney.” He hurried over to the front desk.

Sol pulled Nate into a tight hug. “Hey.”

Nate buried his face in Sol’s broad chest. “I’ve been so fucking scared,” he whispered. Teague’s hand was on his back, and Nate tried to breathe through the suffocating layers of panic and fear.

“Have you any idea what happened?” Teague asked in a low voice.

“Someone in the crowd said they’d been beaten up.”

Sol’s low growl reverberated through him. “For fuck’s sake, they’d only gone to the post office.” He released Nate. “Robert wants us.”

Nate whirled around. He expelled a shuddering breath when Robert beckoned.

“They’re in the trauma center,” he told them, his voice tight. “Let’s go.”

They walked briskly toward the elevators, Nate’s heart thumping.

“Did he say how they’re doing?” Nate’s mouth was dry, despite the cup of water he’d drunk.

“No.” Robert stared at the door of the elevator, and Nate knew he was doing his damnedest to hold it together.

Both of them were.

The doors slid open and Robert strode up to the nurses’ station. He and the nurse spoke for a minute, then she pointed along the hallway.

Robert beckoned them once more. “They’re in Trauma rooms one and two. The doctor is in with Toby now.” He led the way, stopping at the door at the end of the hallway. Chairs sat against the wall, and Nate sank into one of them, his legstrembling. Robert paced, and Sol and Teague stood by Nate, watching him.

The door opened, and the doctor emerged, his black beard dark against his blue scrubs.

Robert didn’t hesitate. “I’m Robert Thorston. Toby is my partner, and Zeeb is one of my ranch hands.” He held his phone out to the doctor, who peered at the screen. “How are they?”

The doctor gestured to a door on the other side of the hallway. “We can talk in there.” Robert stared at him, as if his words had been in a foreign language. The doctor gave a sympathetic smile. “You can see them both, after we’ve talked.”

Sol touched Robert’s arm. “Breathe, Robert.”

He shuddered. “Okay, Doctor…” He peered at the name badge. “Dr. Ramirez.” The doctor held the door open for them, and they went into a small room filled with a sofa and comfy-looking chairs, the walls covered in prints done in tranquil colors.

Robert didn’t sit, however.

“How bad is it?”

“Mr. Nolan has sustained a head injury and a fractured clavicle. He has concussion, and we’ll be keeping him in for observation. If the CT scan shows no brain swelling or bleed, and he seems okay, then he can go home. But he’s going to have extensive bruising. Any movement will be painful, and it could take weeks for him to fully recover. He’ll be going for the scan shortly.”

“But he’s going to be okay?” Nate croaked. “If there’s no brain swelling?” Dr. Ramirez nodded, and Nate crumpled, tears welling up behind his eyelids. Sol’s hand was warm on his shoulder.

The doctor returned his attention to Robert. “Mr. Merrow’s case is far more serious, I’m afraid.”

Robert’s stricken expression tugged at Nate’s heart. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s in a serious condition, but he’s stable for now. Toby suffered a broken arm and trauma to the left side of his chest, sustaining multiple rib fractures down one side resulting in a flail chest. I’ll explain what that means and what we’re doing to help him.”

Robert’s face was the color of milk.

“‘Flail chest’? That sounds horrible.”

“It happens when multiple ribs—in Toby’s case, several—are each broken in two or more places. They showed up in the initial X-ray. That section of his rib cage has become unstable. It doesn’t move the way it should when he breathes.”

“He can’t breathe?” Robert’s voice quaked.

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