Page 6 of A Furever Home (Gaynor Beach Animal Rescue #8)

ARTHUR

My mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage, all papery-dry but slimy too.

A bit of plastic pressed against my nose, like a giant, dried booger.

Someone had poured sand in my eyes and—oh, hell—in the middle of discovering those minor discomforts, someone stabbed me in the thigh with a hot poker, then jammed it up the back of my skull. I groaned.

“Waking up, are we?” said a cheery voice.

“No,” I muttered through gritted teeth. My next couple of breaths sounded embarrassingly like whimpers. Damn, that hurts.

“Come on, big boy,” the voice urged. “Show me you’re awake and aware, and then I can give you a bit more painkiller.”

Now that was incentive. I blinked my stinging eyes open.

The guy bending over me wasn’t familiar—at least, not to my currently half-offline brain. Blue scrubs, red curls, pale skin, a face like a teen popstar…but I didn’t think they let teens do patient care.

I licked my chapped lips. “Who?”

“I’m your floor nurse, Dylan. Welcome back. Can you tell me your name?”

“Arthur,” I managed. “Water?”

“Sure thing, honey.” He picked up a cup and tapped my lips with the straw. “Tiny sips, now. Head trauma makes some folks nauseous.”

“Head…” The water was a blessing on my tongue. I had to force myself not to gulp too fast. Something pulled along my cheek as I swallowed and I raised a hand toward my face, but Dylan caught my wrist. “There’s something on my nose,” I protested.

“Oxygen cannula. Leave it alone.”

“Oxygen? My chest’s okay.”

“Oxygen’s good for bruised brains. Sounds like you gave yours a bit of a bouncing around.”

How bad? But I was thinking and talking, despite the blinding headache, so this couldn’t be much worse than getting hit by a two-hundred-pound lineman in high school football. “My leg?” I asked. That burning pain was unfamiliar.

“What’s your birthdate?” Dylan asked, instead of answering me.

When I told him, he chuckled. “You don’t look thirty-eight. Good skin. What city are we in?”

“Gaynor Beach. Town not city.”

“Hey, we’re growing. Who’s the mayor?”

“I’ll tell you when my head isn’t killing me.”

“Good answer.”

“Painkillers?”

“Any second now. I need to finish the neuro assessment and check your vitals and then we can push the magic button.”

I held still through having the thermometer in my mouth, and various things checked. A bright light aimed into my eyes hurt like a squirt of lemon juice and I grunted. Dylan said, “Sorry. I’ll try to be quick. Pupils are looking good.”

“Didn’t we do this before?” My brain was hazy, my thoughts like sticky cotton candy, but I remembered the light torture, maybe more than once.

“Honey, I hate to tell you, but we’ll be doing it all night long.

At least you’re looking fine. Real stable.

So the doc said I can give you a little dose of the good stuff.

I’ll be back in five minutes. Let me know if you feel woozy or nauseous as the relief comes onboard.

” He tucked a plastic device into my right hand. “There’s your call button.”

“Wait,” I said as he moved out of my flat-on-my-back line of sight. “What happened? What’s next?” I didn’t want to put my worries into words.

“You’ll have to ask your doctor,” Dylan said unhelpfully.

“When will he be here?”

“You mean she. Dr. Ranjan will stop by when she has a break. The painkiller should take effect soon. Try to get some rest.”

I lay flat, breathing shallowly, trying not to move so I wouldn’t stir up the hornets nesting in my right thigh or the fireworks behind my eyes.

What happened? Did I fall? I had a vague impression of Kevin and a dog, and a light-haired stranger who met my eyes in a moment of shock.

Pretty greenish-gray eyes, I thought, and parted lips surrounded by a short-cropped light-brown beard.

Startled… Gunshot. Memory came flooding back, of the sound of a shot, running, Kevin, the dog, the damned chickens.

“He shot me. He really shot me!” I could hear the shock in my own voice even as I squeezed my eyes at the volume.

“Sure did,” a familiar deep voice drawled from over by the unseen door. Footsteps approached. I blinked and then James’s face came into view, with an unfamiliar tight-jawed frown. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t remember?” The morphine or whatever it was seemed to be hitting. My brain felt fluffy as tangled cotton wool, but the pain had backed off to something nasty instead of excruciating. Thank you, modern medicine.

“That’s fair. You’ve been through a lot in the last couple of hours.” A scraping sound and then James hauled a chair over so he could sit where I could see him.

“But they let you in?” I was teasing. Having James there was a comfort.

“Since I came back with your medical power of attorney, yeah. And a good thing too, because they insisted you couldn’t have visitors otherwise.”

“Thanks.” I was glad he was there, even though I wasn’t managing any stellar conversation. “Did the doc tell you what’s wrong with my leg?” I remembered a pulsing flow of blood and felt sick.

“Other than being shot?” James held up a big hand. “Sorry. They said you had a penetrating wound and muscle damage. Nothing broken.”

“So it’s going to heal?”

I’d tried to sound casual, but James reached across and set his hand over mine where I clutched the call button. His dark skin was a warm contrast to my pasty white. “As far as I know, you’ll heal just fine.”

I sighed and didn’t bother to ask about my head. I’d had a concussion before. The signs were familiar, and I knew what the docs would say. Give it time.

James let go of my hand and sat back. “Why don’t you get some sleep, and I’ll wake you when the doctor comes in?”

“You won’t leave?” I begged, the painkiller loosening my tongue. “I know you have Colin and Widget and now the kids to get back to, but…stay? For a bit?” James was a good friend. Although now he had a husband and so much on his plate, I shouldn’t ask for his time.

“I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

I wouldn’t have expected I could drop off, but I was exhausted and trusted James to keep me safe. The woozy warmth of the drug sucked me under.

* * *

When I woke to the dual throbbing of my head and leg, some time had passed. How much, I wasn’t sure, but a middle-aged, dark-haired woman in blue scrubs was standing over me. “Mr. Bjornsson? Arthur?”

“Arthur, please.” I licked my lips and squinted my eyes against the halo of the room lights behind her.

“I’m Dr. Ranjan. I’m here to do an assessment and then talk about your ongoing care.”

James said at her shoulder, “Do you want me here, Arthur, or should I wait outside?”

“Get yourself some coffee,” I told him. “Or a snack. Thanks for staying with me.” If the doc had bad news, I didn’t want James to hear it.

He made a sound as if he wasn’t pleased, but disappeared from my limited view, and I heard the room door open and close. James was a really good guy.

“On a scale of one to ten, how’s your pain?” Dr. Ranjan asked.

I wanted to say eight, but I could imagine much worse things, like falling in boiling water or having my leg blown off, so I said, “Six.”

“Is your head or leg worse?”

My brain was fuzzy enough it took me a minute to think that through, and then I said, “Same? But different?” I closed my eyes because the lights weren’t helping.

I felt a touch on my shoulder that was probably Ranjan’s hand.

“I promise, it will get better soon. You were extremely lucky. The wound to your leg was from a small-caliber bullet, and it went straight through. An inch to the side, and it would’ve broken your femur.

As it is, you have a couple of wounds we’re letting heal by second intention with just bandaging, but they will heal.

Some muscle damage that you’ll want physical therapy for, but I anticipate a nearly full recovery. ”

“Nearly?”

“Some scarring is inevitable.”

“And my head?” I asked into the darkness.

“A bad concussion. We’ll do an MRI tomorrow before we discharge you, but both CTs were essentially normal. Nothing surgical. Just time and rest. Have you had a concussion before?”

“Yeah, at sixteen. Playing football to please my father.” Crap.

Painkiller or trauma was fuzzing my brain, because I didn’t tell people that little detail.

Didn’t reveal the pathos of being a beefy six-foot-tall teenager so eager to please his daddy he spent an entire summer working like hell to get fit, only to ride the bench in the fall.

I made the team, but wasn’t on the field enough for our games to be worth my father’s time.

“Well, a second concussion’s a bit riskier than a first, but I’m pleased with your status so far.

I’m going to do a full assessment now.” The doc proceeded to ask me questions and make me remember a series of words, and move my fingers and curl my toes.

I messed up some of the memory stuff, the pulsing pain in my head making it hard to concentrate, but when she was done, Dr. Ranjan said, “You seem stable, which is good. We can get that oxygen off you now.” She eased the cannula free herself, and I sighed at the loss of one irritant.

“Thanks.”

“Try to get some sleep, and I’ll look in again tomorrow before you’re discharged.”

I’d been trying to tough it out, but then, part of the reason I quit football after the first concussion was because I didn’t buy into stupid macho nonsense. So I asked, “Can I get a little more painkiller?”

“Let me look at your chart.” A pause. “You can have another dose of Tylenol. I’ll have the nurse bring it by.”

“Tylenol.”

She must have heard the flatness of my tone, because her voice went gentle. “Sorry, Arthur. We limit the amount of opioids we give head-trauma patients. I’ll put in an order for some ice packs too.”

I managed to say, “Thanks,” from behind closed eyes.

The door scuffed open, clicked shut. I let my eyes water unwiped, and lay flat and deflated on the pillow, focusing on my breathing.

When James murmured, “Hey, Arthur,” I jumped and yelped. “Sorry!” he added.

“Not your fault.” In case he got the wrong impression, I rubbed my damp face and told him, “Everything’s fine. Puncture wound and a concussion. She said I’ll make a full recovery. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

“You’re allowed.”

“Doesn’t help anything, though.” A thought floated to the top. “The shelter. Vicky had to leave early. Did anyone take care of the evening chores?”

“Colin volunteered.”

“But your kids.” I couldn’t remember how long they’d been fostering, but I knew they were dealing with some emotional issues with their new brood.

“They can handle Danny babysitting for an hour. He brought his kids along as a buffer, and it went fine.”

“Oh. Oh, good. Thank him for me. I might not be out in time for morning chores, though.”

James chuckled, the bastard. “No shit.”

“Watch it, Mama might hear you swearing.” James’s mother was the reason he rarely used that kind of language. So he must’ve been really worried about me. “What day is it? Is Neil working?” I put the heels of my hands on my temples and squeezed. Didn’t help the throbbing.

James’s warm fingers ringed my wrists. “Hey, your brain is already bruised. Let’s not make it worse.” When he’d guided my hands down to my sides he said, “Colin will let the volunteers know you’re out. It’s Sunday, by now.”

“So, no Neil.”

“That guy Brooklyn was already there when Colin arrived,” James told me. “Colin said he was real helpful.”

“Brooklyn?” For a moment the name meant nothing, then those hazel eyes floated into my mind. “The gunshot guy? I mean, not the shooter. Him? Why?” As far as I knew, I’d never met him before.

“He said you asked him to.”

“I did?” Maybe so. I remembered lying on the grass, scared to death, with the stranger a comforting presence I clung to. That’s not embarrassing at all. “You should tell him he doesn’t have to.”

“I don’t have his number. But he told Colin he runs a new doggie-daycare business, so he understands dogs. Even Chili liked him.”

“Colin’s probably lying about Chili,” I muttered because that chihuahua-mix barely tolerated me.

“Maybe.” James chuckled. “But it means he thinks Brooklyn is a good guy.”

“I hope I can pay him back by sending business his way.”

James squeezed my shoulder. “Arthur, you don’t have to pay everyone back for helping you. People like you.”

Maybe so, but it was always safer to reward that. A doggie daycare would be an asset to the community, and I could recommend him to clients—after I checked him out, of course. Win-win.

The nurse Dylan came in with a tiny cup of pills and an ice pack.

James pushed up out of his chair. “I’ll let this guy get you comfortable.”

“You should head home,” I told him. “It must be late, and Colin will be home alone with the kids. I’m just going to sleep anyhow.”

“All right,” James said. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“No, don’t do that.” I’d no doubt feel like crap in the morning and look it too. “I’ll have them call you when I’m being discharged. Probably afternoon.” Especially if they were going to do another scan of my throbbing head. Nothing happened fast in a hospital unless you were dying. “Okay?”

He hesitated, looking down at me, then said, “Okay. Sleep well.” He told Dylan, “You take care of this guy. He’s one of the good ones.”

After the door closed behind him, I told the nurse, “He’s biased. But a great friend.”

“I can make my own judgements, and I agree with him.” Dylan raised the head of my bed slightly.

That set off some fun swoopy dizziness, but I didn’t complain.

“I have some Tylenol for you, and an ice pack. Yes?”

“You’re a god among nurses,” I told him, and prayed that there was some magic in those little capsules in the cup.