Chapter Six

Heath grimaced as he sat up and moved toward the edge of the bed. He clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out and draw attention to himself. This was the strangest place he'd ever been. Anything he said seemed to be a source of amusement to the nurses who wouldn't stop bothering him - poking, staring at him, making him embarrassed.

Why were they doing this? Was it to keep him from returning home to the Barkley's? Was he back to his worst nightmare, the prison camp? Maybe the good memories of his time with the Barkleys was imaginary, just a dream some poor prisoner used to make the horrible living conditions bearable. "Nick," he said in a gravelly voice. "Where are you? I didn’t make you up. I know I didn’t. I can feel it in my bones."

Heath wished fervently for his boots. How was he supposed to escape without them? His boots were personal, meant nearly as much to him as his horse, Charger. It'd taken a year for them to break in and fit his feet like a glove. Dadburnit! It wasn't natural to lie about in bed wearing only an ugly sheet. There were a ton of chores he needed to do on the ranch, and Nick was growing impatient with him.

Heath stood up and immediately folded to the floor, crashing down like a doll released by a child. He couldn't believe how weak he was. He could usually take his punches and keep ridin'.

"What in the world!?"

Heath sheepishly looked up into the blazing eyes of Nurse Bobbie Spencer, who was standing there with hands on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

Heath suddenly felt like a small, scolded child. "I'm sorry," he blurted out.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Bobbie said. "I'm the supervisor in charge of this shift. The buck stops here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Heath repeated. He reached for the side of the bed to pull himself up. "Don't want ya to be in trouble."

Bobbie gave him a hand, and the two managed to get him back in place. Bobbie pulled up the guard rails so he wouldn't fall or slide off the bed again. "I'm only trying to help you," she said. She studied his face. "What's up?" she sighed. "I have a minute. I can listen." Bobbie pulled a chair beside his bed and sat down. She adjusted a white-soled crepe shoe on her foot. "Besides, my feet hurt."

"I don't understand," Heath's voice quivered. "I'm not stupid. I may not be book smart, but I can usually figure out what I don't know." He glanced at the flickering lights and sounds emitting from a box beside the bed. "I know this is a hospital, a place for sick people. That's what you said."

Bobbie nodded.

"But what's all this gadgetry? It's like a somethin' a man might invent by a campfire after having a few snoots of beer and a plate of baked beans."

"What do you want to know?"

"Where am I, first?"

"This is General Hospital, in Port Charles, New York."

"But I'm from California. I live on a ranch."

"Well, that sounds nice."

Heath nodded. "It is. But how'd I get to New York? And why did that funny little man shoot me with his pistol?"

Bobbie's eyes twinkled.  "I was hoping you'd tell me that."

Heath looked around. "Where's the boy? He was shot, too. I'm worried about him. He was hit worse'n me."

"What boy?"

"The one in the prison?"

Bobbie shrugged. "I can't tell you that, but I can answer medical questions."

Heath felt upset. "Am I gonna die? I don't wanna die here. I'd rather be at home, with my family."

"A lot of people feel the same way," Bobbie said. "That's natural. And no, I don't think you'll die from your wounds. We rushed you to surgery in time. Only one bullet penetrated, and that didn't hit anything vital, just your spleen. Although I imagine you feel terrible right now."

Heath's face froze. "Why am I tied up?"

Bobbie smiled. "Those are instruments to monitor your health. They tell us how well your heart is working."

"Is this big city finery?" Heath questioned. "I never heard of such a thing. How can it do all that? I don't see firewood for a furnace and no motor. How does it run?"

"Electricity."

"Oh. I'm not sure about that."

Bobbie shook her head. "You're pretending to be a wounded cowboy from the old west. You certainly had the costume when you were admitted."

Heath pointed a thumb to his chest. "I AM a cowboy. Proud of it, too. There's nothin' wrong with gettin' yer hands dirty workin' for a livin.' People depend on the cattle we raise."

"I guess there are still a few cowboys left," Bobbie said.

"Darn tootin.'"

Bobbie chuckled.

"What? You makin' fun of me?"

"No, no. It's just that I have a brother who says the funniest things at times." She imitated Heath. "Darn tootin, you sound like my brother, Luke. He was in here a few hours ago. Remember him?"

"Wouldn't stop starin' at me," Heath said. "What's a man gotta do ta get a gun in this here room?"

"Sorry. That's against hospital policy."

"I am in prison," Heath grumbled. "A rattlesnake might as well crawl up my bed and bite my big toe." He blinked and then closed his eyes, unable to remain awake with the morphine in his system. "I better wake up and find out I'm dreaming."

***

"Fetch one of your nightshirts for Lucky," Victoria said to Nick. "I'm almost finished with him."

Nick nodded, reluctant to leave the kitchen and the strange boy he'd tried to save. He stared at Lucky but obeyed his mother. She'd turned the situation around, and he'd be forever grateful for that.

Victoria continued to run a soapy rag over the boy's body, cleaning off liberal streaks of blood and grime. She wondered at the odd shoes she'd removed. They were white leather and had a very fancy design of navy stripes slashed along the sides.

"Where are your parents?" she asked the boy. He kept drifting in and out, and she wanted to engage him in conversation yet not frighten him. A low tone of voice would suit the purpose, the same one she often used with Heath when he'd had a mishap or emotional upset. This boy drew her interest in a way that surprised her. She was determined to do whatever necessary to save him.

Lucky's weary eyes locked onto Victoria's. He seemed lost, totally lost.

Victoria saw the boy's hesitance and said, "That's all right. You don't have to say."

Lucky's eyes moistened with a few tears. "I don't know," he whispered.

"Were you separated from them? While traveling? I know boys sometimes are distracted, chasing after coyotes or rabbits."

Lucky shook his head. "I'm...I'm alone. I don't live with them. I left home."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Victoria said. "Have you found an answer to your troubles?"

Lucky raised his head from the table. He moaned and laid his head back down carefully. "It hurts so bad. I'm going crazy!"

"I'll give you a shot of whiskey if you promise to eat some beef broth. You need iron for your blood."

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm sick. I can't."

"No broth, no whiskey," Victoria said, running the wet cloth over his hair, trying to rinse out the dirt.

"I'll try," he said. "Thanks, ma'am."

Victoria frowned. This injured boy was the spitting image of a younger, more slender Heath Barkley. Even his manner, the way he was shy with his feelings yet pleasant, pulled at her heartstrings. Victoria rose from her chair and returned the bowl to the sink.

Lucky panted and shook his head, scrunching his eyes shut, clenching his fists.

"Mother," Nick said loudly. He threw the nightshirt on the chair. "Come here. Something's wrong."

Victoria immediately recognized the boy's predicament. "Where's the pain?" Victoria asked. "Lucky, tell me."

"He's beyond talkin'," Nick exclaimed. He tried to restrain the young man, but the boy was now bucking and screaming, holding his hands to his side, kicking out his legs.

"Help!" Lucky cried. "I'm dying!"

Nick didn't like the extreme fear on the boy's face. "He means it," his tense voice warned.

"Jarrod!" Victoria called.

Jarrod ran to the kitchen, his shirt sleeves pushed up, ready to assist his mother.

"Whiskey," she said firmly. "Bring some here. Now!"

Nick held the boy's chest down, trying to keep him from falling off the table and crashing to the floor.

Jarrod skidded to a stop and uncapped the whiskey. Victoria rushed to the boy. Jarrod stepped beside her, offering a full shot glass.

"Drink," Victoria said firmly, tipping the glass to the boy's mouth. Nick's biceps bulged with the effort of keeping him still. "Another," Victoria nodded. "More," she said after pouring that into him. After the fourth shot, she said, "Enough. That should settle him. Jarrod, we absolutely must contact Howard. Surely, he'll be home tomorrow morning."

"I'll notify Doc Merar," Jarrod said quickly. "It's as good as done."

Lucky's body continued to shake, and Victoria noted that the muscles near the injuries were convulsing. "Fine," she said with a trace of sadness. "We're here, boy. We won't leave you. You’ll be all right."