Love, Like Water (12 page)

“Not as bad as he could be, and better than he should be, given the state he’s in. I heard your nephew was coming to live at the ranch, but I didn’t expect him to be in this condition.” Jack Castellano shook their hands. “What happened to him?”

“Bad assignment with the Bureau.”

“Really? Because what I saw in there looked more like a hoodlum than an agent of the U.S. Government. That tattoo he’s sporting on his arm is the gang symbol for one of the worst gangs in the country.”

“That was his assignment. He hadda infiltrate the gang, get information on them. He did, too. We’re real proud of him.” Tucker couldn’t help sounding defensive, and Jack raised his hands with a grin.

“I believe you, I believe you. Wouldn’t expect any less from a Chastain.”

“So how is he?” Eli interrupted.

“Well, he’s stable, and conscious. I heard he had some trouble with the medics placing the saline, but he seems okay now. I did some blood work—kinda standard for admissions when a person’s medical history is unknown—and aside from a bit of anemia, which isn’t unexpected when you take into account his weight, he’s got no apparent pathogens, his white blood cell count is good, and there’s no evidence of drugs. We’ll be testing further, given the evidence of the needle marks, but initial indication is no sign of HIV or AIDS. So that’s good—he’s more or less healthy, just anemic and underweight. We’re gonna have to monitor his kidney and liver function for a few days—heatstroke has a lot of side effects.” He folded his arms and gazed at Tuck levelly. “Depression is a common side effect of anorexia. Anything you want to say about what happened?”

“He
was
depressed. He wasn’t feeling like he’d be any good out at the ranch and decided to leave,” Tuck said. “I don’t think he realized how far it was to town or how easy it was to get lost. I figure he probably never even made it to the road—wandered off somewhere on the drive and ended up circling the ranch. He left a note and took his backpack, so it wasn’t like he was planning on disappearing.” Damn it, that defensive tone was back. He shut up before he did any more damage.

“I found his backpack halfway, just about where you’d expect he’d lose it if he’d gone off course the way Tuck said.” Eli picked up the tale. He told the lie so smoothly he must have been practicing it. “He ain’t the suicidal kind—he’s too tough. But Chastain-stubborn—he’d be just the kind to keep walking instead of setting down and waiting ’til dawn so he could see where he was goin’.”

Castellano looked from one to the other, then sighed and said, “You two talk a good game. I’m not convinced, but I’ll play it your way, for now, under one condition. You get him in to see a good psychiatrist or psychologist. Whatever he planned to do, he did it because he’s depressed, and that’s not good. The anorexia worries me. How long ago did he go through rehab for the heroin? Those track marks are a dead giveaway.”

“A few months.”

Shaking his head, Jack said, “He should be doing better than he is. None of the marks are fresh, so it’s not that he’s relapsed, but his health should be better. That’s another thing therapy needs to address. Are you sure you want to stick to your story? He’d be better off in the hospital.”

“No,” Tuck said with a shudder. “He’s a Chastain. We don’t do so good corralled.”

The doctor eyed him doubtfully, then said, “Well, I’m going to talk to him anyway before I release him, and I’ll make up my own mind as to what I’m going to recommend.”

“When can we see him?” Eli asked.

“As soon as I get some answers for this official piece of red tape,” Castellano waved the clipboard.

“What are we waiting for?” Tuck gestured at a chair. “Siddown and ask away, and make it snappy. I want to see my nephew.”

Chapter 10

J
OSHUA
lay quietly, eyes closed, listening to the beeps and whines and rustling inside the hospital room. He’d spent enough time in one recently to recognize the sounds without having to open his eyes, and he didn’t want to, anyway. His head pounded like the worst migraine ever, the throb against his temples making him feel sick. He didn’t feel like he needed to vomit, though, which was good. He’d done that once already, spilling bile onto the dust of the desert, which sucked it up almost as fast as it hit. That was maybe half an hour before his vision had gone blurry and he’d stumbled into the ravine or gully or whatever the hell it was. He only knew that it hurt like hell when he fell, and he was pretty sure he’d messed up a knee. Then, he hadn’t cared so much. It didn’t really matter.

Now—yeah, it hurt like a bitch.

He wondered vaguely how they’d found him; he was pretty sure he’d put at least a dozen miles between himself and the ranch. The ranch didn’t have any dogs, but he supposed they could have borrowed someone else’s to track him, once they’d figured out he wasn’t on the road to town. Neither his uncle nor his foreman were stupid, which was why he’d made it look like he’d taken the backpack by stashing it in the stall. He never wrote anyone off as stupid—even the dumbest motherfuckers could pull a fast one on you if you went underestimating them. His misdirection would only slow them down for a while, but that would have given time for the desert to work.

He should have known that someone would figure it out.

Hands shifted him on the bed, stripped him efficiently, and bundled him into cool cotton. Wetness bathed his knee and firm but gentle hands bandaged it up tightly. He felt a needle prick the back of his left hand and then the pull of tape as it was secured. He flinched but otherwise didn’t respond. Then the pain started to ease as whatever it was in the needle took effect.

“No,” he moaned, and his eyes popped open. Everything was still blurry, but it didn’t stop him from trying to reach for his hand to pull out the needle. Someone caught his arm and a male voice said gently, “No, Joshua, it’s fine. It’s just a pain reliever, not anything bad. We’ve got it under control.”

Blinking, he tried to focus on the man standing over him. There was a sea of white, then the brown of skin and hair. “I’m Dr. Castellano, and you’re at the Miller Trauma Center. You’ve got quite a case of heatstroke, and you’re going to be sick for a while. Does your head hurt?”

“Yes,” Joshua rasped. “Blurry.”

“Yes, that’s not unusual. It should clear up. Do you feel nauseous?”

“Queasy.” A deep breath, and Joshua went on, “More from the headache. I threw up—before. Thirsty.”

“No doubt. We’ve got you on a saline drip, but if you don’t think you’ll vomit, we can give you some water. It’s going to taste weird—it’s got electrolytes in it, but you need those. You were pretty dehydrated.”

Joshua nodded, and his head warned him not to do that again.

Someone else brought over a cup with a straw in it and put the straw to Joshua’s mouth; he didn’t care that it tasted funky, he slurped up the entire cupful. “More.”

“In a minute. Let’s wait for your stomach to adjust to that first.”

Joshua closed his eyes again. The light bothered him, but the blurriness bothered him worse. “Who found me?”

“Eli Kelly.” The way he said the name sounded like the doctor knew him. “He called for the State Police helicopter. He’s here, rode in with you. Your uncle’s here, too. I’m going to go down to the waiting room to talk to them, and then when I’m done, they’ll be in to see you. Anything you want me to tell them?”

“No.”

“Okay.” The doctor hesitated, then said, “I imagine that your uncle is worried sick about you—I know I’d be, in his place. I don’t know what happened, but remember that.”

I think I died
. Joshua didn’t speak. The doctor sighed and Joshua heard the door close behind him.

I think I died
. Once thought, the phrase kept repeating itself over and over in his head, keeping counterpoint to the throbbing of the headache. The headache was easing, helped by whatever it was in the IV, but the thought was still steady. He wasn’t sure how he felt about dying. It had, after all, been his plan when he’d left before dawn this morning. But if he had, why had he come back? Or had he only imagined he’d died? There wasn’t any long tunnel, or bright light, but he’d never believed in that crap, anyway. There was just darkness and a voice.

Mijo
.

That had been his grandfather’s word, the common contraction of
mi hijo
, my son, my boy. ’Chete had used it, but in a snarky, condescending way. It never had the overtone of love that Abuelito’s voice had. It never had the hint of sadness Abuelito’s did when Joshua had done something wrong. Not condemnation, never condemnation. Just sadness, which made Joshua want to do better. This voice had that—love, and sadness.
Mijo. Mijo bonito. Mijo valiente
.

That was why he thought he had died—because no one else loved him like that. No other man, anyway, and it was definitely a man’s voice. It had brought him back from that edge of darkness, kept him from the quiet and peace he’d been looking for. If it was Abuelito, then that meant
he
didn’t want Joshua to die. So there must be a reason for him to go on.

He took a long, deep breath. The air conditioning felt cool and dry in his lungs and he was thirsty again. Opening his eyes, he looked for the water and instead met the startled expression of his uncle. “Uncle Tuck,” he rasped.

“Josh! Thank God you’re okay! I was worrit sick. That was damn silly, walking off like that—if you’d really wanted to leave, you shoulda just said so. I’da driven you to Miller myself.” Tuck cast a glance over Joshua toward the door. “No sense you going off and getting lost like that.” He looked back at Joshua, his eyes intent, as if trying to send a message….

Oh
. That was how he wanted to play it. The doctor had probably threatened Uncle Tucker with Josh’s commitment or something. He’d only just gotten
out
of the hospital—he wasn’t eager to head back in. “No,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Tucker. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Stupid to get lost like that.”

A chuff of exasperation sounded over by the door, and Joshua glanced over to see Dr. Castellano leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. He said nothing, though, just eyed Joshua skeptically.

Joshua said, “Can you hand me the water, Uncle Tucker?”

“Oh, sure.” Happy to have something to do other than stand there looking uncomfortable, his uncle obliged. Once Joshua had finished, Tucker took the cup and set it on the tray table, so it would be in easy reach. Then he sat down gingerly on the edge of Joshua’s bed and waited until the doctor left. “Okay,” he said in a low voice, “let’s cut to the chase. What the deuce were you thinkin’, Josh? Was living on the ranch
that
bad?”

“It had nothing to do with the ranch, Uncle Tucker.”

“Then that fight with Eli. There
was
a fight, wasn’t there?”

Startled, Joshua blinked. “Fight? There wasn’t any fight. Kelly’s been fine.”

“But something musta happened in the barn yesterday. You were all upset over it.”

The barn. Standing so close to Eli that he could smell the man, the sweat and sweet musty scent of hay and grass. The way the man’s eyes had darkened as Joshua met them. The way his mouth had softened from its usual wry smile. The intensity of his expression. Joshua had put his hand on his shoulder and felt the heat of his body, the strong muscles beneath the worn cotton of his shirt. Wondered briefly how it would feel without the cotton. Wondered how he would taste, what it would be like to lie down with that strong, hard body beside him, around him, in him. He hadn’t dared take a lover during his three years on assignment, and the sudden shock of his desire for Eli had shaken Joshua. So he’d run. “There wasn’t anything,” he said dully. “We just talked. He’s… he’s a good man, Uncle Tucker. He belongs here. Just kind of reminded me that I don’t.”

“That’s baloney, Josh. You ain’t been here long enough to know whether you belong or don’t belong. You ain’t had time to find a place. Besides, I need you here. I got more work than I know what to do with, and just yesterday a ranch up near Boulder called because they got a problem horse they need to deal with—and I tole them there aren’t any problem horses, there’re only troubled horses. But troubled horses take work. So they want me up there next week, and I got paperwork coming out the wazoo. It sure would help if you could take on some of that.”

“I don’t know anything about running a ranch,” Joshua said.

“I know you don’t, son. We’ve got a week to get you up to speed.” Tucker rubbed his forehead, and Joshua realized he didn’t have his hat. “I hope you’re out of here quick.”

“Where’s your hat?”

“What? Oh, Eli’s got it down in the waiting room.”

“Eli’s here?”

“Well, sure. He rode the copter in with you.” Right, the doctor had said that. Joshua cursed his aching head. He shouldn’t have forgotten that. A stupid mistake like that could cost…. He stopped, took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to watch every move anymore. It was okay for him to forget things. He closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “The doctor said that—I just forgot.”