Page 21 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

I ’m jostled from the comfort of sleep by a persistent beeping. It starts off far away. Somewhere in the distance. I try to shove it from my mind.

Can’t I just carry on in this cozy, dreamless place?

It’s soft here. Feels nice.

Everything is usually so hard .

My eyes are glued shut. I’m fucking tired, man. All I want to do is sleep and sleep and then sleep some more.

But that goddamn beeping keeps on coming at me like a train, and it’s only getting louder.

It’s more demanding. Blasting through, clawing and grabbing at my attention, so instead, I turn my head to bury my face in the pillow.

No way did I set an alarm clock, definitely not one that sounds like this annoying piece of shit.

“Mr. Wilder? Can you hear me?” A gentle, male voice drifts in. Close by. Too close to make any sense because why the fuck am I hearing voices when there’s only me and the horses and the dang cattle on the top of Devil’s Peak?

Why is someone here?

I’m always alone.

“Mr. Wilder.” That disembodied voice calls out again, and this time, I reluctantly creak one eyelid open .

It takes an extreme amount of effort just to focus. The world in front of me swims and whirls with enough sway to it the whole situation makes me kinda nauseous.

Rustling sheets accompany the scrape of starched fabric against my bare skin. I’m blinking rapidly now, my brain starting to thread together what in the fuck is going on. Grasping at memories I know are floating right there but can’t seem to reel in.

“We’re just gonna take a look at your vitals now that you’re awake.” That same male voice soothes me from a spot beside my bed.

Finally, I drop out of dream-space and thud into reality.

Not my bed. A hospital bed. I’m in a fucking hospital.

Although there’s no pain, not that I can tell. In fact, I feel fucking good . Like I could get up and jog outta here, if my legs didn’t feel so heavy and my head didn’t feel so numb.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Wilder?”

It takes a couple of attempts to wet my mouth before speaking, which results in someone—the guy who I don’t recognize, but now see has short dark hair, glasses, and blue scrubs—pressing a straw to my lips, encouraging me to sip some water.

Fuck. That’s the best goddamn drink of water I’ve ever had in my life.

“Th—thanks,” I croak.

“How is your pain?” he says, picking up a clipboard from the foot of my bed.

Pain? Pretty sure I’ve only got this gooey, pleasant feeling rolling around my body. Definitely no pain going on.

I run my tongue over my cracked lips.

“That’s good,” he hums absently, circling something on the chart.

Oh, fuck. Am I talking without knowing it? “Did I just say that out loud?”

He chuckles and pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’ll be the pain relief you’re on, most likely.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I’m glad to hear you’re comfortable.”

“What happened?” I try to rub at my forehead, but there’s a tube sticking out of the back of my hand .

“We’re just waiting on your emergency contact to get here. Then we can run through all the details.” He walks around to look at the bag hooked up at my bedside.

“Nah, doc. Give it to me straight.” Efforts to push myself higher in the bed don't really do shit. I’m stuck here lying flat on my back, and suddenly, that sense of foreboding skulks around the edges of all the pink fluffy cloud feelings I’ve got going on.

“Rodeo stock through and through, aren’t you?” He chuckles.

“I just... need to know. Don’t dance around it.” My chest tightens.

“Well, you’ve suffered a concussion, and meniscus tear.”

“Have I been out of it this whole time?”

“No, but that’s likely to be the concussion. Your short-term memory might be compromised. It’s not uncommon for a head injury to result in being unable to recall events immediately after the impact.” He tucks the clipboard back in its holder and then checks his watch.

My fingers twist in the sheets bunched around my hips. As I try to focus on what he’s saying, I see that I’m wearing a hospital gown, not my competition gear.

“We also want to take a look at your spine to make sure there was no damage on impact and will need to do follow-up scans once the swelling to your knee has subsided. That will be the best way to determine the extent of the injury, and you can look at options for future rehab and recovery.”

Where is my stuff? Suddenly I’m wondering what the fuck just happened to all that period of time from earlier today. What do I remember? The last thing was running through my stretches and pre-ride routines.

“...no driving, or heavy machinery, prioritizing a need to rest.” He ticks off fingers as he speaks. “There might be challenges in returning to work, so we recommend a gradual or staggered approach to any tasks that are overly physical or put stress on the injury.”

Scrunching my eyes closed, those words are now hollow and tinny sounding.

Drifting in from far away. I don’t want to hear this.

I don’t want to hear any part of it. Because everything this asshole is saying makes it sound like I’m going to be in recovery for more time than it takes to slap some ice on and walk it off.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Like I say, Mr. Wilder. It’s a lot to take in right now, and we can go into more detail when your emergency contact arrives. Our nurse’s station has let me know they’re on their way here.”

“There’s no one,” I mutter.

At this point, I’m not taking in half of what this guy is saying. That pleasant, cushy, floaty feeling has evaporated, and now I’m just feeling seasick at the prospect of what this all means.

Noise and bustle from the rest of the hospital floor drifts in, and the guy gives me a detached smile. A practiced, impartial look at a patient. One of hundreds of faces he’ll deal with this week, no doubt. Before disappearing, he says something about returning soon to monitor my pain levels.

The pressure on my chest grows heavier and heavier with each passing second I lie in this tiny cot.

Letting my eyes drift closed, I search my mind for what happened out there. Do I want to remember? Do I want to recover any memories of the reason why I ended up in a hospital bed, alone?

A gruff voice cuts across my misery, causing my eyes to pop open when the bark comes from right beside me.

“I told you to lose my number years ago, dick. Why am I still your emergency contact?”