Hell on Heels (Hotel Rodeo #1)(9)

“What are you saying?” she asked the doctor in growing despair. “Please speak plainly.”

“It could still be days before he gains consciousness,” Dr. Chen replied, “but even then he probably won’t be able to talk. The MRI shows extensive damage to the speech center of his brain.”

Monica’s throat constricted as the words sank in. “Are you saying he’ll never recover?”

Dr. Chen looked even graver. “I’m a believer in medical science, not miracles, Ms. Brandt. He’s getting the very best care we can offer, and once he regains consciousness we’ll begin a comprehensive rehabilitation program, but even with the best care, he’s going to have permanent neurological impairment. It’s impossible to predict the extent of the damage at this juncture, but you need to be aware that a full recovery is virtually impossible.”

Although she stubbornly refused to give up hope for Tom’s recovery, Monica understood that she wouldn’t be returning to New York anytime soon. As Tom’s only family, she was legally and morally responsible for his health care. On top of that, she’d have to assume responsibility for all of his business affairs. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the realization that she was stuck in Vegas for the long haul.

“Ms. Brandt?” Monica looked up to acknowledge the nurse who’d stepped into the room.

“There’s a gentleman who’d like to speak with you. He says he’s a close friend of your father.”

“Who is he?” Monica asked.

“Says his name is Ty Morgan.”

“Sure,” she murmured, puzzling over the name. It seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall when she’d heard it. “I guess you can bring him back.”

A moment later, she blinked in surprise. When the nurse said a close friend of Tom’s, she’d pictured a paunchy, middle-aged retiree in ugly plaid golf pants. What greeted her instead was a tall, lean, thirty-something extra from a spaghetti western. Her gaze traveled slowly over him, from the Stetson that topped his head to the boots on his feet. The only thing missing was a set of long and jangling spurs. Who was he, and what did he mean to Tom?

He removed his hat, revealing thick, sandy hair that needed a trim. “I’m guessing you’re Monica.” His voice was a deep, velvety baritone with a hint of southern drawl. “I’m Ty. Ty Morgan.” He stepped toward her, closing his warm, heavily calloused hand over hers. “I’ve known your father since I was a kid.” He released her hand, his attention now riveted on the man in the bed. A look of deep concern etched his rugged face. “I was haunting the halls last night until they all but kicked me out, but they wouldn’t tell me anything until you got here.”

“They were just doing their job.”

“Yeah. That’s what they said, but it sure as hell wasn’t much comfort. Can you tell me anything? What did the doc say? Is he going to make it?”

Monica drew a fortifying breath. She could barely process it herself, let alone regurgitate it all back. “He had a stroke with bleeding in his brain. The neurologist says he’s going to have permanent speech impairment.”

Ty’s tanned face paled before her eyes. He knelt beside Tom’s bed, bowing his head on a string of mumbled words—she couldn’t decide whether they were a curse or a prayer.

Monica covertly studied his profile—a strong nose, not overly large but definitely masculine, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jaw covered with beard shadow. Ty Morgan wasn’t bad-looking in a rough-hewn kind of way. She wondered how he’d look clean-shaven and in a power suit—which simultaneously reminded her of Evan and her job in New York.

She shoved both thoughts to the back of her mind.

“Morgan.” Monica repeated softly. “As in Brandt Morgan Entertainment?”

“That’s right.” Ty looked up, and she noticed his eyes for the first time—hazel, red-rimmed, and shadowed. Sleepless night? Heavy drinking? Maybe both. “My father and yours were once partners in a rodeo company.”

“Rodeo?” she repeated. “For real?”

“Yeah. But that was way back before Tom hit it big with oil.”

“How interesting. He never told me about that. I knew Tom came from western stock but didn’t realize he was a genuine cowboy. I guess I always thought of him as more of a kinder and gentler J. R. Ewing.”

Ty laughed outright. “Kind and gentle? To his friends I guess that’s true enough, but I promise you, ol’ J. R. had nothing on Tom when dealing with adversaries. The man’s made of steel.”

“So tell me about this rodeo company,” Monica asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Back in the day, my ol’ man and yours produced all the big shows back in Oklahoma. When the national championship pulled out of Oklahoma City to relocate to Vegas, they gambled everything they had to stay in the game as contractors. They even bought a small hotel and casino on the north end of The Strip and used the surrounding land as their stockyards. Although they eventually lost the stock contract to bigger operations, they kept the hotel.”

“So where’s your father now, Mr. Morgan?”

“Dead, ma’am. Since I was ten. Got gored by a Mexican fighting bull.”

Monica shuddered. “Your father was gored by a bull?”