Chapter Four

Luke Spencer crept into the darkened hospital room, not wanting anyone to catch him visiting the stranger. There was possible liability involved. Besides, he wasn't supposed to be a caring man. It might ruin his reputation. He could have just walked away and let his attorney handle any possible lawsuits, but he was drawn to this man in an odd way, almost like an obsession. He had to take a closer look at him.

Luke bent over the unconscious young man, hooked up to a cardiac monitor, blood pressure machine, IV. He pensively rubbed his beard, familiar with the dimple in the man's chin. He had it in his own. The man seemed to be in his twenties, same coloring as his son, Lucky. He was certainly built like a working man, though -- broad chest, calloused hands, and a determined jaw. Instinctively, Luke knew this was a strong-willed man who'd been through numerous troubles and emerged victorious on the other side.

Lucky had been on Luke's mind for days. They'd searched so hard for him when he disappeared a year ago. Luke had many enemies. His challenging personality and history of shady business dealings gave him many suspects in his son's kidnapping, but there'd been no ransom note. The police were convinced Lucky was dead and that it was foolish to believe otherwise. But, Luke still kept in touch with his contacts. It had worked. He'd hit pay dirt recently. Someone had seen Lucky in the custody of that evil creature, Faison.

Luke wondered if this were really Helena's handiwork, not the Danish madman's. She was his arch-nemesis, carrying a twenty year grudge against him for the death of her son, Stavros. It had clearly been self-defense since Stavros had kidnapped his wife, Laura. Perhaps Helena had managed to pull off the ultimate revenge: a son for a son.

The man stirred, grumbling in his sleep, emerging from the anesthesia. He hadn't been in his room long. His stomach was swathed in a broad white bandage wrapped around his entire torso. Dr. Quartermaine had mentioned that two of the three bullets had been embedded in the young man's rock hard abs, unable to pass through their muscular might. A third bullet had obliterated his spleen, however, and it had been removed.  

The young man's lips moved before his eyes opened. "Mother?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

Luke chuckled. "I've been called lots of things, but that ain't one of 'em."

Luke stepped back when the man's eyes opened to reveal the soul of his Cowboy, his Lucky. "Hot damn," he muttered. "Who are you? What's your name?"

Heath's face scrunched up. "Who're you?" he replied.

"Asked you first."

Heath studied the man standing beside his bed. "Barkley. Heath Barkley's my name. That's all I'm gonna tell ya. I ain't givin' ya more than name and rank."

"You were rank all right. You smelled like a skunk when you crashed my bar."

"Huh?"

"You broke my table. That fighting's gonna cost you."

Heath draped a hand over his forehead. "How much?"

"Five hundred dollars. It was solid wood."

Heath really did sit up this time, crying out in agony, gripping his stomach. "What? That's a lot of money!"

Luke raised one eyebrow. "You betcha." He liked the effect he was having on the young man. The best defense was an offense. The man had been hurt in his establishment, but he'd make him pay for it. Elegant.

Heath's eyes widened as he glanced around him. "Wh...where am I?"

"Hospital."

"I'm in Sacramento? How'd I get here? I was ridin' along the ranch, checkin' for loose fencing. Then...then it gets funny after that. Like a dream."

"You're dreamin' if you think this is California," Luke snorted. "You're in New York State, Port Charles to be exact, close to Canada." Luke's eyes narrowed, and he waved a finger at Heath. "And you messed up my bar."

"Nick!" Heath shouted, his eyes wildly roaming the room. "Where are ya? Nick!"

"You'd better not mean Nikolas Cassadine," Luke spat out. "Because I think his b*tch grandmother, Helena, is behind this. What do you know about her?" Luke poked his arm. "Tell me!"

Sweat broke out on Heath's brow, and he was pale, swaying on the bed. He pushed the medical devices around him. "Help," he said tremulously. "Help."

"I'll help send you straight to hell if you don't tell me what you're up to!" Luke shouted. He shook Heath's arm. "Where is he!?? Where's Lucky? What have you done with him? How much is Helena paying you? I'm going to get to the bottom of this if I have to choke it out of you!"

Heath was breathing frantically now. He ripped tubing from his nose and stared at it as his hand trembled. "What are ya doin' ta me?" his voice quivered. His other hand slapped at the tube in his arm. "Lemme go!" Heath swung his bare legs out from under the blankets.

"Get back in bed!" Luke ordered. "You've been shot, you fool!"

Heath's eyes flashed. "Those're fightin' words!" he yelled, throwing a wild punch in Luke's direction.

Luke ducked and then pushed Heath back onto the bed.

Heath lunged for Luke's throat, his cardiac leads popping from his muscular chest, and his face full of rage. "I'm getting' outta here!"

***

"We've got to go, boy," Nick said as he struggled to lift the injured young man to a sitting position. He was now questioning his earlier decision to remove the boy's bullets. He had to get him back to the ranch, where they had more medical supplies, herbal teas and Irish moss to help stem the blood flow. The boy would die within hours if he remained in the shack.

Lucky feebly protested, slipping from Nick's grip and slamming back down on the cot. Nick wanted keep him awake. It might be the boy's best chance at survival. His youth would serve him, but gunshot wounds were serious, fatal perhaps. No man deserved to die before his time, even if he were a bank robber, as Nick guessed this young man might be. Certainly not a cattle rustler or horse thief with those pretty hands.

Nick gripped the lad's chin with a firm, calloused hand and shook it. "Look at me," he ordered. "What's yer real name, boy?" Nick looked down at his hands and flicked off a dried flake of blood. He was tired. It had only been an hour since he'd used his knife to dig deep into the stranger's flesh. Seemed like days ago.

Lucky's lips worked, but he had a hard time speaking. Nick held his canteen to Lucky's lips and encouraged him to drink, pouring very slowly and stroking the kid's throat as he cradled Lucky's head in one strong arm. "You need water. Good, clean water. This shack doesn't have a decent well. We should get you back to the ranch."

Nick shook his head at the boy's lack of response and the water that dribbled down his chin. He'd have to tie the boy behind him with a piece of rope and hope he didn't fall off. Coco was a good horse. She wouldn't protest the extra load. The sun was still bright, but sunsets hit suddenly in this part of the country, and nights were cold. They barely had an hour to get back. Coco would have to run hard, and she hadn't been fed recently. Nick knew the trip would also be hard on the injured boy, jostling him and leading to more bloodshed. He didn't dare leave him behind for fear of the wolves that were frequent visitors to the ranch. Wolves wouldn't bother a healthy, grown man, but an injured boy? Nick wasn't sure. There'd been plenty of stories he'd heard.

"Come on!" Nick bellowed, red-faced, his fear building by the minute. Part of him didn't want to admit he felt responsible for this boy. It would be easier to share the burden with the rest of his family. He could hardly bear the fact that Heath was missing, perhaps lying wounded somewhere on the property. Heath's horse, Charger, had returned with an empty saddle. It was an ominous sign. Surely Charger wouldn’t abandon his favorite person, the man he'd bonded with, not if he were alive.

Shame curled in Nick's gut, reminding him of the heated argument that morning, one that led his brother to race off on his horse. Why did he care about fencing so much? Heath hadn't finished the chore on Nick's timetable. So what? He should have held his temper. Nick would give up the ranch to ensure Heath's safety. Perhaps a gang had kidnapped him, and that's exactly what they'd demand to spare his brother's life.

Lucky made garbled, gulping sounds, and Nick bent close to hear. "Lu..u...ckeeee," is what the boy said.

"No you're not," Nick chuckled. "That’s a good ribtickler, you rascal. You remind me of my brother. Always quick with a joke and a saucy song. But you're magnets for trouble."

Lucky's bloodshot eyes opened, and Nick wondered not for the first time at their blue color. Blue wasn't uncommon, but many Barkleys specialized in that bright hue. "Sp...pp...spencer," Lucky managed to say.

Nick disregarded the filth of Lucky's cot and makeshift operating table and slipped beside him and placing an arm around his shoulder, lifting, allowing the kid to rest his head on his shoulder. Nick patted the blondish brown hair, feeling deep sorrow for the lad's predicament. "That's your name?" he questioned, finally understanding that the boy was trying to answer him. "Your name is Lucky Spencer?"

Lucky's head barely moved in a nod.

"What sorta name is Lucky?" Nick asked. "It's odd. A nickname?"

"Yeaaah," Lucky breathed out. "Lu..." Lucky coughed hard, and Nick patted him on the back. "Lucas," the boy choked out.

"Now that's a proper name," Nick said, satisfied. "Lucas Spencer, I'm Nicholas Barkley, better known as Nick. We're leaving this shack. Come on." Nick lifted the boy to his feet, and Lucky grimaced, his face white as a sheet.

"I know you're woozy. Just a few steps to the horse."

Lucky's bleary eyes turned up to stare at the strange man who was dressed in a western costume -- vest, chaps, and hat just like the characters on the old TV show, Bonanza. "Horse?"

"How else do you expect to travel?" Nick said, shaking his head.

"Car?"

Nick snorted. "No fancy buggy for this rugged terrain. You really are a city slicker, aren't ya?"

"Yes," Lucky said as he took one tentative step with Nick's help, holding onto the man's arm like a lifeline.

"Whereabouts?"

"New York."

"City?" Nick asked. "That's a long ways off. What are you doing here?"

"Dunno," Lucky said.

"Who shot you?" Nick felt the kid's body grow rigid, and he was surprised at the depth of Lucky's anger. The boy's eyes nearly shot out flames.

"Faison," Lucky hissed. He stumbled, and Nick had to support his full body weight to prevent him from sinking to the ground.

"Almost there," Nick said, now dragging an insensible Lucky. He didn't like the way the kid's head lolled to the side with his lips parted, struggling to breath. He could hear how hard the kid worked to pull in air. Not good. There was nothing he could do if Lucky grew worse. People almost never woke from comas; it was the sign of sure death within a day or two. However, many a man had been laid out in a parlor in his Sunday suit before his supposed death, only to awaken at his own funeral. There was hope. It was hard to tell sometimes when the spirit decided to depart.

Nick hoisted Lucky onto Coco's back. He wasn't too heavy. That was good. That and the fact he was nearly unconscious again. He'd wanted the boy to stay awake, but it would be pure torture for him to ride so far with his injuries. Nick placed supply bags to either side of the boy's body for support, looping a rope around his waist and under the horse's belly, hoping he wasn't carrying back a dead body.  

***

Helena paced in front of the alien-looking time machine. "How long do we have?" she questioned Faison.

"Instructions say ten days. Der Patriarch must die by then."

Helena's green eyes flashed. "Death," she said with a ghastly smile. "Death of a lineage. It will bring back my beloved Mikkos and Stavros. Luke Spencer won't exist to kill them."

Time was a tricky proposition, Faison realized. Helena was simplifying to the point of improbability, but he'd play along. What choice did he have? Men died when Helena was disappointed. "It is der plan," Faison agreed. He'd better prepare backup arrangements with his man, Wilem, in case this didn't work. He didn't fancy the wrath of Helena. They'd have to make a quick escape. What would happen to the fabric of the universe if one man ceased to exist...and procreate? 

***

"What's all this commotion?" the buxom, redheaded nurse demanded. She held her hands on her hips and glared at her brother and the patient who lay prostrate on his side with a bleeding wound. Nurse Bobbie Spencer was a force to be reckoned with. Her determined eyes and bouncy curls revealed the strength of a woman who'd beaten the odds to become a medical professional yet retained her sense of humor and love of family.

Luke gestured toward Heath and plastered an innocent expression on his face. "We were merely having a discussion. He fell over."

"Why are all of his cardiac leads ripped off?" Bobbie asked. She pulled Heath over and gently laid him back, inspecting the loose bandaging.

"He has a temper," Luke sputtered. Not many people could reason with Luke. Only his deceased Aunt Ruby and his sister, Barbara Jean, better known as Bobbie.

"And you don't?" Bobbie replied shortly. She looped the oxygen apparatus under Heath's nose and checked his pulse. "Your heart's racing," she said. "Why are you upset?"

Heath shook his head and coughed. He pointed weakly in Luke's direction. "Fightin'...words," he gasped.

"Are you riling up this patient?" Bobbie chided her brother.

"Who me?"

Bobbie continued repairing Heath's bandage and placing his medical devices in order.  She lifted his gown to attend to his needs, and Heath blushed bright red, aware that his clothes were missing and this redhead was mighty cute. "I'm fine," he insisted, pushing her away gently. "You can go."

"Listen up, buster," Bobbie said, her temper flaring. "It's my job to ensure you are safe and comfortable. I'm in charge here, not you. Your job is to recover. Got that?"

Heath blinked in confusion. He could swear it was his mother, speaking to him in her no-nonsense tone of voice. No one ever got anything past her. "Where am I?" he asked miserably.

"You're in the hospital. You were shot three times and had surgery to remove the bullets."

"I been shot before," Heath said.

"I can tell," Bobbie said, shaking her head. "You have scars."

"Lots of them."

"Yes."

Heath closed his eyes, too exhausted to maintain the vigilance he needed to escape this place. He had to sleep first and get back his strength. The lady was being nice to him, trying not to hurt him. She was tucking in his blanket, smoothing out his hair. It felt good. He reached for her hand, squeezing it. "Thanks," he said.

"I'll be back later to check on you," Bobbie said, placing his hand on the bed. "We can talk. Maybe then you can tell me how you got here and why you were shot. I have lots of questions."

Heath smiled lazily, dragged under, barely hearing her kind voice.