Page 14 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Understood,” I say, and for a second the room blurs.
Riley appears at the foot of the bed with her clipboard. “Nurse says he’s going to be fine, Sheriff. Splint today, proper cast after the swelling goes down. A few days taking it easy. We’ve already flagged his teachers.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it like a prayer.
She ducks her head. “We’ll do better with the equipment checks. That’s on us.”
I want to tell her that accidents happen, that I know prevention and luck live in the same house and don’t always talk. All I manage is a nod that I hope reads as mercy.
They shoo us out after a bit. Brick drifts, eyes heavy. I kiss him and tell him I’ll be back later. The nurse has my cell phone and promises to call if he needs me for anything … ANYTHING.
I step back into the hall where Melissa stands beside her chair with stubborn dignity, IV pole beside her like a scepter.
“You need to sit,” I tell her.
“You need to breathe,” she counters. “I’ll go back to my drip if you promise to drink that water and call whoever you call when you have to pretend you’re fine.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Then call anyway,” she says, and tips her chin at my phone.
I text David: Son took a fall. At hospital. Hold the fort.
I add: Don’t say the Q word.
His answer pings back instantly: Already did. A goat got loose in the Dollar Depot. Send help.
Despite myself, I smile.
I walk Melissa back to her bay, settle her in, and sit with her for the last stretch of her chemo because it feels wrong to leave. We don’t talk much, just breathe the same air and share the same silent, stubborn belief that the people we love will make it.
When her nurse unhooks the line and tapes gauze over the site, I take her tote. Outside, the sun is doing that late-afternoon desert gold that makes even the hospital parking lot look tender.
In the car, Melissa watches me start the engine. “You did all right today, Sheriff.”
“Not sure that’s true.”
“It is.” She aims that look at me again, the one that x-rays. “Also, don’t say ‘quiet’ to your deputies. They’re superstitious chickens and it amuses me when men who carry guns fear vocabulary.”
I huff a laugh. “Noted.”
We drive. She stares out the window for a while, then says, “Your boy is going to be fine. And he is going to need to see you fine, too.”
“I hear you.”
“Good.” She points at the road. “Now take me home before Nora decides to mother both of us.”
Back at Warbler, I walk her to the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob. “Tell Nora I went like a lamb.”
“I’ll tell her you went like a lion.”
“Better,” Melissa says, and disappears inside.
I sit in the cruiser for a second, hands loose on the wheel, and let everything hit. Relief is a physical thing, heavy and dizzying. When it settles, I key the radio.
“Dispatch, Sheriff Vaughn back in service.”
Static crackles, then our dispatcher’s voice: “Copy, Sheriff. And, uh… if you happen to be near Main, Ms. Baxter reports a feral goat in Dollar Depot, aisle five. It’s eating pool noodles.”
