Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(93)

"Liberty . . . something's gone wrong the past couple of days. Dad and Uncle T.J. — "

"Yes, I know about that. Churchill told me. He also told me about something that happened today, which you really need to hear."

"What is it?"

"I think Churchill should be the one to tell you." She nudged me to look toward the visitors' entrance, where my father and Joe were just coming in. Liberty stood and motioned Dad over to us, and he eased into the chair beside me. And in spite of all my anger and feelings of betrayal, I leaned against him and put my head on his shoulder, breathing in his leathery Dad-smell.

"What happened, Punkin?" he asked.

I kept my head on his shoulder as I told him. Every now and then his hand came up and patted my arm gently. He seemed bewildered that Nick would have done something so crazy, and asked what had happened to drive him off the deep end. I thought of explaining that Nick had always been that way, that his abuse had destroyed our marriage. But I decided to save that particular conversation for a better time and place. So I just shook my head and shrugged and said I had no idea.

And then Dad surprised me by saying, "I knew Hardy was going to come see you tonight."

I lifted my head and looked at him. "You did? How?"

"He called me around five today. Said he was sorry he'd agreed to the lease deal, and he'd already told T.J. it was off. He said he hadn't been thinking straight on Saturday, and it had been a mistake on both sides — us for offering, and him for accepting."

"He was right," I said shortly.

"So the deal is off," Dad said.

"Oh, no it isn't!" I scowled at him. "You're still going to keep your end of it. You make sure Hardy gets the leases at the fair price he offered, and tell T.J. to forget the bonus. And if you do that, I'll be willing to give you another chance at a normal father-daughter relationship."

I was determined that for once in his life, Hardy Cates was going to have it all.

"And you're going to keep on seeing him?"

"Yes."

My father smiled slightly. "Probably a good thing, considering what he told me about you."

"What? What did he tell you?"

My father shook his head. "He asked me to keep it private. And I'm done interfering. Except . . . "

I gave an unsteady laugh. "Except what? Damn it, Daddy, why do you have to quit interfering when you finally have something I want to hear? "

"I can tell you this much. I've had two men approach me about their feelings for my daughter. One of 'em was Nick. And I didn't believe a word he said. Not because you're not worth loving. Nick just didn't have it in him. But Hardy Cates . . . for all that he's a rascal and a born redneck . . . I believed him today. He wasn't trying to sell me something. He was just telling me like it was. I respected that. And whatever you choose to do about him, I'll respect that too."

Two hours passed. I paced, sat, watched TV, and guzzled burnt-tasting coffee flavored with powdered creamer and fake sweetener. When I thought I was going to explode from the tension of not knowing anything, the door opened. A tall white-haired surgeon stood there, his gaze sweeping the room. "Any family for Hardy Cates?"

I shot over to him. "I'm his fiancée." I thought that might get me more information. "Haven Travis."

"Dr. Whitfield." We shook hands.

"Mr. Cates used up all his luck on this one," the surgeon said. "The bullet nicked the spleen, but no other organs were damaged. Almost a miracle. I'd have expected the bullet to bounce around a little more, but thankfully it didn't. After we removed the bullet, we were able to do a relatively simple suture repair on the spleen and salvage it completely. Given Mr. Cates's age and excellent health, there's no reason to expect complications of any kind. So I'd say he'll be in the hospital for about a week, and then it'll take about four to six weeks more until he's all healed up."

My eyes and nose stung. I passed a sleeve over my eyes to blot them. "So he won't have any problems from this in the future? No gimpy spleen or anything?"

"Oh, no. I'd expect a full recovery."

"Oh, my God." I let out a shuddering sigh. It was one of the best moments of my life. No, the absolute best. I was electrified and weak, and breathless. "I'm so relieved, I actually feel sort of queasy from it. Is that possible?"

"It's either relief," Dr. Whitfield said kindly, "or the waiting room coffee. Most likely the coffee."

The hospital rule was that intensive care patients could have twenty-four-hour visitation. The catch was, you could only stay fifteen minutes per hour, except in special circumstances as approved by the nursing staff. I asked Gage to pull whatever strings he could to make sure I could come and go at will. My brother seemed vaguely amused by this, and reminded me about how I had once objected to using power and money to get special treatment. I told him that when you were in love, hypocrisy won out over principle. And Gage said he certainly understood that, and he went and got me special permission to stay with Hardy as long as I wanted.

I dozed in a reclining chair in Hardy's room most of the night. The problem was, a hospital was the worst place in the world to sleep. Nurses came in hourly, exchanging IV bags, checking the monitors, and taking Hardy's temperature and blood pressure. But I welcomed each interruption, because I loved hearing about how well he was doing, over and over again.