Page 156 of Dust Storm

The Jordan Loft novel I had grabbed from the house two days ago was open on my lap, but I didn’t have the focus to read.

Every time I tried to look at a page, I would jolt up, certain that I heard Ray move or make a noise.

But he never did.

Sitting beside an unresponsive body for three weeks had my mind playing constant tricks on me.

I looked down at the book, scanning a few lines before turning the page. My eyes snapped up when I thought the blanket moved, but Ray was still as a statue.

Twice, I thought I heard my name, but it was just the nurses talking at the station outside the door.

I needed to get some sleep.

Chris.

I turned another page, glossing over letters and punctuation. Why was I even attempting to read? I should have just turned on the TV to watch the replay of Cassandra’s ex-fiancé getting arrested for the thousandth time.

Chris.

Maybe I should call Cassandra. It was about lunch time. She’d be taking a break and heading up to the house.

Then again, one of the renewable energy companies she courted was going to begin installing solar panels on top of allthe barns and warehouses. It was the first stage before they broke ground on the south side of the property. My stipulation was that they used land the cattle never touched. Cassandra’s demand was that it was out of sight of the future lodge and restaurant.

Guilt ate at me for not being there today. She and CJ were capable, but I should have been there to handle it.

Chris.

I sighed and looked up at Ray.

Heavy eyes blinked back at me.

My heart stopped.

Breath clouded the oxygen mask. I watched—not quite believing my eyes—as he licked his lips.

“Ray?” My voice was a hoarse whisper.

He tried to say something, but I couldn’t quite make it out. The mix of adrenaline and relief was too much to bear.

I slammed my hand into the call button to get the nurses in here as tears welled up in my eyes.

His eyes flicked down to the oxygen mask, then back up at me. Carefully, I lifted it just enough to hear him.

“My score?” The whisper was dry and cracked, like someone crawling out of a grave and cheating death.

I handed over the championship buckle that had been sitting by his bedside for three weeks.

I placed it in his fingers, but they never moved to grip it.

“Ninety-one point nine.”

Night had fallenby the time I made it back to the ranch. The rest of the day had been filled with tears of grief and gratitude.

Quadriplegic.

I rolled the word around in my head as I parked the truck in front of the house.

He was paralyzed from the neck down, but he was alive.

---