Page 5 of The Cowboy's Christmas
“Good idea.” The man bent a little farther into himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Quinn knew that look. Broken ribs probably.
He got to his feet and skidded his way across the road and opened the rear door of his truck. The damage from the collision was on the far side, so he couldn’t gauge the extent, but he had a feeling that it was about fifty times worse than the negligible dent on the flatbed’s heavy-duty frame.
He put out the reflective triangles on both sides of the road, then returned to the truck to grab the blanket out of the back seat before skating back across the road.
The old guy was staring into space, still cradling his arm against his chest. Quinn crouched down to drop the blanket over the guy’s shoulders, fighting the wind as he tucked it around him.
“Thanks,” the man said. “Sure sorry about your truck.”
“What’s your name?” Quinn asked to divert the guy’s attention from the accident. In return, he got an incredulous look.
“You don’t know my name?”
“I’m not Austin.”
The old man frowned deeply. “Must have hit my head harder than I thought.”
Quinn smiled a little, more as a reflex than anything. “I’m his half-brother. It’s a long story.”
Red and blue flashing lights saved him from having to tell it. The sheriff came around the sweeping corner and pulled to a stop on the gravel fifty yards from the front of Quinn’s truck. Seconds later, the Montana Highway Patrol arrived from the opposite direction, followed by the ambulance the old man had insisted he didn’t need. Quinn blinked against the cacophony of colored lights, some flashing, some steady, and went to meet the sheriff.
Half an hour later, Quinn felt as if he’d spent the day on the range, searching for lost cattle in the aftermath of a blizzard. He was chilled to the freaking bone. The wind had been relentless as he’d given his statement and the highway patrol officer made her measurements.
After the official data had been collected, and while the sheriff continued to argue with the other driver about the ambulance, Quinn studied the damage to his truck. Obliterated headlight, detached bumper, punctured radiator. Green slime clung to the small amount of snow that had piled against the front wheels. His grill was toast and the hood crumbled. Given the age of his truck—pre-airbag era—it was totaled.
Merry Christmas.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit his boss’s number.
“Hey, Jim? It might be a bit before I get back.”
“Getting on that well with your brothers?”
“The meeting went okay.” Jim and his wife Anne had been concerned. Now they could stop worrying. “My truck’s out of commission. I’ll have to see what my options are, but it could be a bit before I get back.” As he saw it, he had two choices—stay in Marietta until it was repaired, or head back home somehow and then figure out a way back to pick it up. Either way it was a pain in the ass.
“I told you not to drive the Ford.” Jim was a Dodge man through and through.
Rather than defend his choice of vehicles, he said, “I’ll know more in the morning, but it’ll probably be a few days.”
In the background, Anne demanded to know what the trouble was.
“He has truck problems,” Jim answered, “because he insisted on driving the Ford. Probably be a few days.”
“I hope he doesn’t miss Christmas,” Quinn heard Anne reply.
“Tell her I wouldn’t dream of it.” The Nearys had made it a point to include him in their Christmas celebrations after he’d lost his mother four years ago. He hadn’t intended for them to fill the void, but Anne had become a commando mother hen when she discovered that their lone-wolf driver had suffered a personal loss. He found himself eating dinner with them more and more often, then partaking in holiday celebrations, and then they’d just kind of became part of his life. Which was fine as long as they understood that he might not be in their employ forever. There was no reason he couldn’t be, but after growing up on the move, he tended to get itchy feet after a spell.
“I’ll be in contact when I know more.” He ended the call and then debated about brother protocol. Should he call them?
He answered his own question by shoving his phone into his pocket and buttoning the flap.
He said he’d call if he ran into trouble, but this was under control. Word of the accident would get back to them, this being a small community and all, so yeah, eventually he’d call. Just not yet.
*
The sun wassinking behind the mountains when Savannah pulled into the hospital parking lot feeling as if she’d just driven a hundred miles rather than thirty some. She had calmed to a degree during the drive to town—action always made her feel better—but as she cruised through the hospital parking lot toward the empty parking spot not too far from the door, her stress level began to edge up again. She needed to edge it back down, and to have her wits about her as she figured out what the next steps might be, and she couldn’t do that until she found out what condition her uncle was in.
Stubborn, stubborn man.
