She didn’t know anything about Dalton’s medical history, other than what he’d said about not being allergic to bees, so she mostly answered his questions about what had happened, where they were from, and where they were going. Then he answered her questions about how Dalton was doing and what she should do next.
“He’s not anaphylactic,” Roger assured her. “And he doesn’t need to be transported to a hospital. But he’ll be pretty uncomfortable for a while. It might have been worse if you hadn’t given him the antihistamine.”
At least she’d done something right this time.
Roger gave her a detailed list of things to do until Dalton could follow up with his primary care physician: Ice the worst stings, ten minutes on, ten off. Treat them with ammonia and alcohol or a paste made of water and baking soda. Since he had so many stings, an Epsom salt bath might provide relief. He could take ibuprofen for pain and inflammation, but no more than 3,200 mg a day until his doctor checked him out, and an antihistamine as per the directions on the bottle.
“He a vet?” Tom asked, drawing her attention to the other side of the car.
Dalton was still dozing. His oxygen mask was gone and Tom was sealing a hazardous waste bag filled with various wrappers and used medical paraphernalia. “I noticed what looks like a shrapnel scar by his waist.”
“I don’t know,” Raney said. “He was in Iraq but he doesn’t talk about it.”
“Most vets don’t.” Tom tossed the hazardous waste bag onto the gurney and closed his medical case. “He’s a big guy. This many stings on a kid would be problematic, but Dalton should be fine.” He straightened and put the case on top of the unused gurney. “Slow down and drive safe,” he called back as he pushed the gurney toward the open doors on the back of the ambulance.
“Keep an eye on him for the next twelve hours,” Roger said, still bent by her window, hand resting on the top of the car. “If he shows any breathing problems or has a feeling of swelling in his tongue or throat, take him to emergency. Meanwhile, do what I told you and have him follow up with his doctor as soon as he gets home.” He looked at Dalton one more time. “Don’t be surprised if he sleeps all the way to Waco.” He straightened, thumped the roof of the car, said, “Y’all be careful now,” and walked away.
Raney watched them drive off, then went into the Shell station bathroom. She was still shaky from the adrenaline rush but it was fading fast, leaving behind a knot of tension in her stomach. In the cracked mirror above the sink, her eyes looked swollen and red rimmed. Like she’d been crying. Which she hadn’t done in nine years.
He’s alive, she told herself. He’s okay. It’s not like Daddy.
After splashing her face with cold water, she took a few deep breaths, then went back to the car. Dalton was still dozing, mouth open, snoring softly. Not wanting to wake him, she grabbed her cell phone and went behind the car to call Joss and tell her to find a hotel because they would be staying overnight in Waco.
She expected a protest.
Instead, Joss told her Mama had already taken care of everything. “She tried to call you. She decided she didn’t want us driving so late and got adjoining rooms at the Hilton, 213 and 214. I’ll text you the address as soon as we hang up. She even had them send a shuttle for me, so I’m already settled in our room, munching on a Cobb salad she had room service bring. Who’s the guy with you?”
How like Mama to leave that explanation to her. “A trainer who works at the ranch. Look, Joss, we still have a ways to go, so I better—”
“Do I know him?”
Raney closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready for this. She was tired, had a grinding headache that was making her slightly nauseated, and didn’t want to get into long explanations when she still had an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of her.
But she probably should prepare Joss so her sister didn’t say something tacky.
“It’s Dalton Cardwell.”
“Beanpole? I remember him—wait! Isn’t he the guy who killed Jim Bob Adkins and went to prison? Oh my God, you hired an ex-con?”
“Actually, Mama hired him. It’s late, Joss, I—”
“What’s he like? You know, after being in prison? That can really screw up a person, I hear. Is he dangerous?”
“No, he’s not dangerous. He’s not a beanpole anymore, either. In fact, he’s big enough to get stung thirteen times by yellow jackets without going into shock.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. Call Mama for me and tell her we’re almost to Waco and to stop worrying.”
“But—”
“My phone’s going dead, Joss. See you soon.” She ended the call and got back into the car.
Seconds later, Joss’s text came in with the address of the hotel. Raney put it into the GPS system, started the car, and pulled back onto Highway 6, which would take them all the way to Interstate 35 in Waco.
Dalton continued to snore.
A nearly full moon rose out of the east, which meant deer would be all over the road. Remembering what the EMTs said, Raney drove slower and watched harder, which only added to her weariness. She combated it by making lists.
She was good at lists. She liked that sense of accomplishment when she scratched off each item. Lists were a necessary part of running a ranch as big as Four Star, and in this case, they kept her awake.
Fresh underwear. Something to sleep in. Tank top. Check.
She wondered if she should get anything for Dalton, then decided against it. He would probably see her buying him boxers and a shirt as a marriage proposal. She glanced over, wondering if he wore boxers. Or anything. Not something she wanted to dwell on, yet, oddly,
