1

    Joan Caldwell hit every stoplight from the Triple C to Los Robles Hospital.  The tired El Camino skidded to a halt in front of the hospital entrance as Joan applied the brakes full-force.  Multi-colored temporary signs were everywhere.  The newly-constructed expansion that Joan read about in the newspaper was nearly completed, and the old signs were nowhere to be found.  The last time Joan was at Los Robles was a year ago.  Tears filled her eyes again.  Images of the events from that horrible day flashed through her head.

    “My poor Chase,” Joan said aloud, sniffling and wiping tears from her bloodshot eyes.  “She’ll be okay, Son,” Joan said as if speaking to Chase.  “You’ll see.”  Joan took her foot off of the brake and the fast idle of the engine made the dirty copper-colored Chevy lurch forward.  The power steering made a grinding noise as Joan turned the wheel sharply toward the hospital entrance.

    “Employee parking spaces full.  Use remote parking lot,” Joan said aloud as she read the first sign that caught her eye.  “There it is.  Hospital Entrance,” she continued.  The grind of the power steering grew louder in the Southern California heat as Joan ignored the stop sign and guided Colleen’s El Camino into the parking garage.  A parking spot marked “Compact” was empty near the handicap spaces on the ground level.  The El Camino was a bit larger than “Compact,” but Joan didn’t care.  She guided the car Colleen referred to as “The Bitch” into the spot, and turned off the ignition.  The ignition wouldn’t let go of the keys.  Joan forgot to shift the transmission into “Park” before shutting off the engine, which was a habit of hers.

    “Dammit,” Joan said aloud.  Joan shifted the lever into “Park” and finally managed to remove the keys.  In a blur of synchronized motion, Joan freed herself from the El Camino and pushed the door closed with the heel of her boot.  Her footsteps echoed through the ground level of the parking structure at a hurried pace.  The thick concrete pillars that surrounded her looked like an obstacle course that made no sense.  She followed the painted yellow footsteps on the sidewalk and the signs that said, “Patient Entrance,” nearly running into a young Hispanic woman pushing an empty stroller as she rounded the corner. 

    There in the space marked “Cold Zone” was Unit 23, its strobe lights still flashing bright beams of red and white.  The familiar knocking of the diesel engine filled Joan’s ears as she headed for the rear of the ambulance, hoping to find any sign of the injured Colleen.  No such luck.  Joan skidded to a halt and peered inside Unit 23’s open double doors.  Neither Colleen nor the paramedics were anywhere in sight.

    “Shit,” said Joan, under her breath.

    The loud clicking sound of automatic doors caught Joan’s attention to her right.  Dewey Doyle, the veteran Paramedic was guiding the shiny gurney through the doors with Rookie Josh Tyler trailing behind.  The gurney was empty, save the rigid backboard that held the unconscious Colleen minutes earlier.

    “Ms. Caldwell?” called Doyle as he made eye contact with Joan.

    “Y-Yes!” Joan answered as Doyle approached with the empty gurney and slowed to a stop.  Joan took a nervous step toward Doyle.

    “Ms. Caldwell, Colleen’s gonna be just fine.  They’re already prepping her for the O.R. for surgery on the leg,” Doyle announced.

    “Oh, God!” Joan wailed as she put her hands to her mouth.  She took a step toward the “Patient Entrance” and Doyle put a hand on her arm, stopping her.

    “Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.  Her vital signs are stable, and Doc says she didn’t lose much blood, thanks to you,” Doyle continued.

    “Me?  W-“

    “Did you wrap her leg like that?” Doyle interrupted.

    “N-No… the cowboy must’ve…” Joan stuttered.

    “The what?” inquired Doyle.

    Joan took a deep breath and let it out, calming herself a little.  “There was a man… a cowboy… he must’ve done it.”

    “Is he here?  With you, I mean?” Doyle continued his interrogation.

    “No.  I don’t know who he is,” answered Joan.

    “Well, whoever he is, he sure knew what he was doin’.  Doc says he couldn’t have done it better if he were in the field himself,” said Doyle.

    Joan was growing impatient.  She started toward the patient entrance again, and then stopped suddenly.

    “Thank you.  Mister…” Joan turned again toward the two paramedics.

    “Doyle.  Dewey Doyle.  And this is my partner Josh Tyler,” Doyle replied, motioning to the young Tyler.

    “At your service, Ma’am,” Josh said with a wave of his still-gloved hand.

    Joan placed her right hand over her heart.  “Really… I mean it.  Thank you,” she said meekly, choked up with emotion.

    “You’re welcome, Ms. Caldwell.  That’s what we’re here for,” replied Doyle.

    Joan resumed her course toward the Patient Entrance.  The double doors swung outward and Colleen Caldwell’s formidable, sixty-one-year-old Mother-In-Law disappeared into the heart of Los Robles Hospital.

2

    Triple C Ranch Foreman Carlos Guzman and twenty generations before him knew the business of horses.  In the late sixteenth century, Guzman forefathers worked with the famed Lipizzaner breed of horses at the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, Austria.  European royalty at that time knew the Guzman surname well, as the Lipizzaner was bred partly for exhibitions of “classical dressage” for royal households.  The typically gray modern Lipizzaner requires a full six years to train.  Carlos was sure Camorrista would require much more than that before she would clear her first rail in a show jumping competition.

    The skills of the Guzman surname and the Assistant Ranch Foreman, Jesus were put to the test that hot, dry Southern California morning.  Camorrista fought Carlos and Jesus all the way to the bath stall, a mere 50 yards from where the cowboy tied the raging filly to the show ring fence.  Carlos made a mental note about the thin, rusting chains at the head of the bath stall that held Camorrista in place by her harness.  One violent motion in any direction could snap the weakest links, and Camorrista would be free.

    Camorrista pawed weakly at the concrete bath stall floor with her right hoof as Carlos sent Jesus for a curry comb, shampoo, brush and a bucket.  Patches of sweat on Camorrista’s flanks glistened in the sun despite the dirt and dust that found its way into her short hair.  Carlos lifted the handle of the hydrant slowly until water trickled lazily from the end of the hose.  He knew well about “showing” the water to a spooked horse to avoid further incident.  Camorrista stretched her neck slightly and touched her top lip to the water as it dribbled and splashed her front hooves on the concrete below.

    Jesus arrived with the bucket of items and handed them to Carlos.  Carlos removed the curry comb, shampoo and brush, and filled the short bucket with water.  He then held the bucket in front of the filly’s nose, and she began to gulp water.

    “Easy, Camorrista,” said Carlos.  “Jus a leetle for now,” he said.

    Carlos handed the curry comb to Jesus and filled the bucket with water and shampoo.  Jesus patted Camorrista’s neck and began to brush her mane with the curry comb.  Dust and dirt fell with each brush of the comb, which made Jesus sneeze.  The wind started to blow around the ranch, kicking up more dust from the show ring.  Carlos told Jesus to hose down the show ring, and that he would finish bathing Camorrista.  Carlos knew that the filly would be more at ease if he were washing her alone anyway.  Carlos further instructed Jesus to spend extra time wetting down the show ring from now on.

    The absence of rainfall in Simi Valley and Southern California was worse than the Guzman surname had seen for over a hundred years.

    Carlos ran water over Camorrista’s twitching shoulders.  He started to think about Colleen.  He thought about how the morning would have turned out differently had he not allowed the show ring gate to slam shut with such a clatter.  He felt that the day’s work would be done for Colleen if he had been more careful with the gate.  His father would be ashamed of him if he were alive, he thought.

    Carlos switched the water hose to his left hand and did a Sign of the Cross as a tribute to his father.  He thought again about how Colleen should be in the house drinking Joan’s special sun tea instead of fighting to take a breath in the place where they took Chase Caldwell to die a year ago.  Carlos felt his eyes begin to water as he felt ashamed of his recklessness.  He again did a Sign of the Cross in tribute to Chase Caldwell, who he held on his shoulders countless times as an infant so many years ago.

    Religion was not Joan Caldwell’s strong suit, but she spoke silently to God in the waiting area of Los Robles Hospital.  “Please, God,” she said softly, her hands folded at her chin.  “Help Colleen,” she continued.  Joan whispered what she knew of the Lord’s Prayer, and skipped over the parts she couldn’t remember.  “Something about trespasses,” she whispered.  “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever.  Amen.”

    Joan felt a hand on her shoulder.  When she opened her eyes and looked up, she saw a man in his seventies, dressed in black.  He was performing a Sign of the Cross and his eyes were closed.  Joan bowed her head again and closed her eyes.

    “Bless this child in her time of need,” he said.  “In your holy name we pray.  Amen.”

    “Amen,” Joan repeated.  She opened her eyes and looked up again.  “Thank you, Father,” Joan said to the man, recognizing him as a Catholic Priest.  “I need all of the help I can get.”

    “The coffee cart outside is only open during the week, but we can find a pot of the good stuff around here somewhere.  Can I buy you a cup?” said the Priest.

    “No, thank you,” said Joan.

    “Well, there’s a beautiful garden out there as well.  It’s a perfect place for a prayer or two.  Would you like to join me?” the Priest continued.

    “Well, I’m not Catholic or anything,” replied Joan.

    “You don’t need to be Catholic to appreciate a beautiful garden, my child,” said the Priest.  “And besides,” he continued, sensing Joan’s discomfort, “Shakespeare said, Sweet flowers that grow slowly should be enjoyed, but you should never sit in the weeds or they’ll grow so fast that they’ll hastily overtake you.”

    “Shakespeare said that?” Joan asked.

    “Well… sort of,” said the Priest.  “That’s kind of two quotes mashed together.”

    “Alright.  I’ll be sittin’ in the weeds for a while after today anyway,” said Joan as she stood up and wiped a tear that hung on her cheek.

3

    “Gimme a pack of Marlboro Reds in the box, please,” said the muscular, shirtless cowboy to the gas station cashier.

    “Just one?” replied the cashier, a Hispanic man in his early twenties.

    “Please,” the cowboy repeated.

    The cashier noticed that the cowboy’s left hand was wrapped in a dirty blue bandage of some sort, which was stained with fresh blood at the palm.  “How did you hurt your hand?” the cashier asked.

    “Cut myself shavin’,” replied the cowboy.

    The cashier chuckled as he retrieved the cowboy’s cigarettes from the bin above him.  “That’s funny, Man.  Is that all for you today?”

    The cowboy leaned forward and peered through the small security window of the gas station’s only building.  “Yeah, that’ll do… John,” said the cowboy as he read the cashier’s name tag.

    “Four eighty-five, Mister…” John waited for the cowboy to fill in the blank with his name, but got no reply.

    The cowboy reached in the right pocket of his faded jeans, and pulled out a few dollars.  “Here’s five.  Keep the change, John.”

    “Gee, thanks… a lot, Mister…” John tried for a response again.

    The cowboy turned his back to John, and began to open his pack of smokes.  “Jim,” the cowboy said without looking back at John.  “Just Jim.”

    Jim’s broad, well-defined back was covered in a large, colorful tattoo of the Christ nailed to the cross.  “Wow,” John said quietly in surprise.

    “A friend of mine did that for me,” Jim said without turning.  “Not bad, huh?”

    “Incredible,” said John as he did a weak Sign of the Cross to himself.  John also noticed a leather pouch of some kind attached to the well-built cowboy’s belt in the small of his back.  The flat, brown leather pouch was shaped crudely like a banana, and John guessed that at one time it held the blade of a fairly intimidating knife.  After a pause, John said, “Better have that hand looked at.  The hospital is just up the street on Lynn,” informed John.

    “Thanks.  Have a good day, John,” Jim replied, still without turning to face John.

    “You too… Just Jim,” John said as he studied the leather pouch through the window.

    The muscular cowboy held the pack of cigarettes with his bandaged left hand, and removed a smoke with his right.  He tapped the filter end of the smoke to the pack twice and put it in his mouth, then reached in his right pocket and produced a shiny, copper-colored Zippo lighter.  Jim snapped his fingers, and the lid of the lighter flew open.  He cupped the end of the cigarette and was about to ignite the wick when a large, shiny black Chevy Suburban pulled into the well-marked Handicap space in front of him.  Jim slowly snapped the lid of the Zippo closed, put it back in his pocket, and removed the cigarette from his mouth.

    Behind the wheel of the Suburban was a man in his mid-twenties.  He had black, curly, shoulder-length hair that stuck out from beneath a beige Gatsby-like hat.

    Jim took a step forward and placed the cigarette behind his right ear for safekeeping.  He scanned the license plate and rear view mirror of the Suburban, looking for the Handicap sticker.  The Gatsby man kicked open the door, hopped out of the driver’s seat, and whipped the door shut behind him.  He trotted toward the curb where Jim was standing, and did a quick hop to the concrete sidewalk.  Jim stopped him in his tracks with a quick stiff-arm to his chest, surprising the young Gatsby man and sending him back to the pavement.  Gatsby stood speechless, blinking exaggeratedly.

    The shirtless, blonde-haired cowboy was a few inches shorter than Gatsby, but outweighed him by at least fifty pounds.  “Where’s your Handicap sticker?” Jim asked calmly, looking Gatsby square in the face.

    “Why, were you gonna park here?” said Gatsby with attitude.

    “No… and neither are you,” Jim said, keeping a calm, even tone of voice.

    “I’ll be done in a minute, Dude,” said Gatsby as he started up the curb a second time.

    Jim stopped him again and sent him back to the asphalt with another stiff-arm.  “You’re already done,” said Jim.

    “Who are you, the Good Samaritan now?”  Gatsby asked as he started up the curb a third time.

    The thin, twenty-something man tried to squeeze between Jim and the soda machine to his left, and was about to pass.  Jim stepped to his right, and struck Gatsby in the stomach with a large, closed fist in an uppercut motion, causing him to stumble backward once again off of the curb.  Gatsby doubled over in pain and cradled his stomach with both arms without a sound.  Jim calmly stepped off of the curb toward Gatsby, but the curly-haired driver of the Chevy Suburban never saw his approach.

    Jim lifted his right knee in the air, paused for a second, and brought the heel of his boot to Gatsby’s left kneecap, sending him to the hot, oil-stained pavement like a ton of bricks.  Gatsby’s hat fell from his head as his shoulder hit the pavement.

    “Now you can see your doctor.  He’ll give you a sticker,” Jim said as he stood up straight and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his bandaged left hand.

    Jim took the cigarette from behind his ear and put it in his mouth.  Gatsby was in the fetal position on the oily asphalt, holding his knee with one hand, and his stomach with the other.  The hatless Gatsby screamed in pain.  Jim reached once again for his Zippo and pulled it from his pocket.  He snapped the lid open with his fingers again and was about to ignite the wick, when he noticed three or four bystanders gathering to see what the screaming was about.  Jim once again closed the Zippo with a click, put the cigarette behind his ear, and put his left hand in his jeans pocket in an attempt to hide his bloody bandage.

“Somebody better call an ambulance,” a large, balding man in his early forties to Jim’s left said loudly.

“You do it, Fat Man,” Jim said in the same even tone as before without looking at the bystander.

Jim took a step forward and landed his boot squarely in the middle of the beige hat that once held Gatsby’s curly hair in place.  His boot left a dirty print as he stepped over the writhing Gatsby’s midsection, and continued toward the intersection of Lynn and Moorpark.

    Gatsby screamed in pain again, which turned the attention of the bystanders back toward the injured illegal parker.

    “You fucker!” Gatsby screamed.  Most of the bystanders went back to pumping their gas, turning their attention once again to the high price per gallon of fuel rather than the high price of parking illegally in a Handicap spot.

4

    Joan Caldwell rarely shared her troubles with close family, let alone a Priest she hardly knew.  Father Francis Jones, a staple at Los Robles Hospital in Thousand Oaks, always knew just the right things to say to get people to spill their guts to him.  It was a gift he always had, which is helpful for a Priest who hears hundreds of confessions every week.  Joan never met many Priests in her sixty-one years alive on God’s green earth, but this one seemed different from the ones she had met as a young girl.  There was something calming about him.  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew she could tell Father Francis Jones anything… and she did.

Tears flowed from Joan’s eyes as she told the story of what happened to Colleen that morning, and the story of what happened to Chase nearly a year before.  She said things to Father Jones that no other person alive had ever heard before.  She talked about Chase’s father, who drank heavily and was a notorious philanderer up until the time of his death fifteen years ago when Chase was just a boy of fourteen.  Even Chase didn’t know most of the things about his father that Joan confided in Father Jones about.  This “confession” in the small, beautifully laden rose garden was something that Joan needed desperately.  Just what the Doctor ordered.

    The flurry of tears that were released in the garden rivaled the trickle of the fountain at its center.  One by one, memories came to the surface and were released like doves released at the beginning of an Olympic ceremony.  Pages and pages of memories were ripped from Joan’s novel of a mind, and were thrown into the wind.  Everyone in the world disappeared except Joan Caldwell and the seventy-one-year old Priest.

    Father Francis Jones heard many confessions in his nearly thirty years of Priesthood, but never had he heard so many different stories from one person in one hour’s time.  Stories about Joan’s internalized guilt filled his ears.  Unbridled guilt flowed from the woman sitting next to him like champagne flows at a wedding reception.  Guilt from Joan’s many miscarriages before Chase was born.  The baby daughter Joan lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome two weeks after bringing her home from the hospital, and the guilt Chase’s father placed on her shoulders because of it.

    Joan spoke of how Colleen filled the emptiness that only a mother can feel in her heart following her son’s death, and how Colleen became the daughter she always wanted.  She talked about Chase and Colleen’s fairytale wedding as if it happened yesterday, and how complete she felt when the bride and groom both said, “I do.”  Joan brought Father Jones “up to speed,” so to speak.  The Priest listened intently as Joan went over the events that happened less than two hours ago, which brought her back to the present.  Tears stopped.  Joan sat up rigidly as if she found new strength.  Joan was a rock again.

    Father Francis Jones smiled as Joan looked him squarely in the eye.  “How many people have you told this to, if any?” asked the Priest with a weak smile.

    “Not many,” Joan replied, her tone more calm and confident.

    “God listens to all his children,” the Priest continued.  “Sometimes people get lost and forget that he hears everything, sees everything, and forgives everything he hears and sees.”

    “Thank you, Father.  I… don’t know what came over me.  I feel like I should apologize to you for all of my ranting and raving.  You have sick people that need you, and I took up so much of your time,” Joan said.

    “Anytime, my Child,” Father Jones said.  “Let’s pray together.  Just a quickie,” he said with an even wider smile, which Joan found comforting.

    “I’m not very good at that part, Father,” Joan said straightforwardly.

    “That’s okay,” comforted the Priest, who stood up and faced Joan.  “I’ll say some words about asking the Lord to help you find strength, I’ll touch your head a few times, and then I’ll make it look like I’m swatting flies or something when I talk about the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Like this.” Father Jones demonstrated a rather loose Sign of the Cross.  It was different than the one she saw him do while she was praying in the lobby.  “Sound like a deal to you?” he asked Joan.

    “Deal,” said Joan, as she began to bow her head, fold her fingers together at her chin and close her eyes like she did before.

    “Amen,” said Father Jones.

    “Amen?” Joan said as she looked up again, confused.

    “Yup!  Ahh-men!  See how quick that was?  We were praying together and you didn’t even know it.  I’m sneaky that way,” he chuckled.

    “You’re not like any other Priest I ever met before, you know that?” Joan said in her own chuckle as she touched Father Jones on the arm.

    “You know, you should never touch a Priest,” he replied in a serious tone as the smile instantly disappeared from his face.

    “Oh my G-“ Joan caught herself.  “Really?  I’m sorry.  I had no idea-“

    Father Jones interrupted with a loud belly laugh.  “I was kidding,” he laughed out loud.

    Joan swatted at the place where she touched the seventy-one-year-old man of God on the arm, but she missed as the agile Priest pulled his arm away quickly, much like a grandfather playing “Gimme five” with his four-year-old Grandson before he would say, “Too slow.”

    “You cause too much trouble, Frank,” a man’s voice with an Asian accent announced from the double doors that led to the hospital lobby.

    “Doctor Eng,” Father Jones said as he stuck out his hand in greeting.

    “Hi.  I Doctor Eng,” said the Asian man dressed in blue scrubs and Surgeon’s cap as he shook Father Jones’ hand.

    “I know who you are, smart Abraham,” Father Jones replied, replacing the word ass with something Biblical.  “But have you met my friend?” he continued as he let go of Doctor Eng’s hand and motioned toward Joan.

    Joan stood up, and all of the balled-up tissues from the “garden confession” fell from her lap and onto the concrete ground at her feet.

    “Sh-“ Joan quickly covered her mouth with her left hand.

    “That okay.  I swear in Vietnamese in operating room all time.  Nurses not know what I say,” Doctor Eng said as he stuck out his right hand to greet Joan.

    Joan bent over to one side and gathered the tissues with her left hand and shook Doctor Eng’s hand with her right.  “Joan Caldwell.  Nice to meet you, Doctor Eng,” Joan said as she stood up, towering over the short, fifty-something Asian man in blue.

    “You the one I come out to see.  It okay if I talk in front of Priest who make too much trouble?” asked Doctor Eng, who shook Joan’s hand weakly, and then let go.

    “Yes,” replied Joan.  “You’re Colleen’s doctor?”

    “Yes, I just finish with Colleen.” said the doctor, turning suddenly serious.

    “How is she?” Joan asked, returning both hands to her mouth as was her habit.  Her heart suddenly raced again.

    Father Francis Jones stood with his feet apart about shoulder width, grabbed his right elbow with his left hand, and touched his chin with his right fist, as if bracing himself for bad news.

    “She doing fine,” replied Doctor Eng.  “She have broken collarbone on left side.  Not much we do for that other than put her arm in sling.”  Doctor Eng paused and took a breath as he slid the blue surgical cap off of his head, revealing patches of salt-and-pepper gray in his hair.  “She have a few bruise on her ribs, so that she hurt there for a while.”

    “How about her leg?” Joan asked, fearing the worst.

    “We do surgery on the leg to put larger bone back the way it was.  It was a straight break, so that make it easy to put together,” replied the doctor.  “She will have cast and four metal pin that hold both bone like this,” he said, demonstrating with his index fingers.

    “Can I see her yet?” asked Colleen.

    “She in recovery room about one more hour, and then they take her to second floor.  You can see her then,” said the short doctor as the look of seriousness eased from his face.  “She strong girl.  She lucky she not worse than broken leg.  She have small scar where bone come through skin once we take off cast, but that about it.”

    “I’m so relieved,” Joan said with a big sigh.  “An hour or so… second floor,” she said, repeating Doctor Eng’s words.

    Father Jones dropped his hands to his sides, pulled his pants up an inch or so by the belt, and let out a breath of air.  He didn’t realize that he’d been holding his breath while Doctor Eng spoke.  “Thank you, Doc.  God bless you and the work you do.  I’ll show her where the second floor is,” he said.

    “Yes, thank you, Doctor Eng,” Joan said as she stuck her right hand out again.

    Doctor Eng met Joan’s hand with his and shook it again weakly.  “Welcome,” he said.  “I check on Colleen this afternoon… about five or five tutty.  See how she doing.”

    “Okay.  I’ll see you then,” acknowledged Joan.

    “Always a pleasure, Doc,” said Father Jones, who shook Doctor Eng’s hand firmly.

    “Frank.  You still cause too much trouble,” replied the Doctor with a wink.  “Now I go back to suh-juh-ry.  That make two broken leg today.  Man walk down street, get leg broke.  Always on Sunday,” Doctor Eng said as he winked exaggeratedly at the Priest before heading for the lobby doors.

    Father Jones turned toward Joan Caldwell.  “That’s great news,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

    “Yes, thank God,” Joan replied.

    “That’s the spirit!  You want me to hang around for a while?  Keep you company for an hour or so?” asked Father Jones.

    “I need to make some calls and let everyone know Colleen’s condition,” said Joan.  “Our Ranch Foreman is probably worried sick,” she continued as she stuffed the balled tissues in her pockets.

    Father Francis Jones checked his pockets, imitating Joan.  “Okay then.  Keep your chin up, and I’ll stop by Colleen’s room from time to time to see if you need anything.”

    “You’ve already done so much, Father.  I can’t thank you enough.”  Joan stuck her hand out to shake the tall man of God’s hand.

    The Priest shook Joan’s hand with both of his, and then took the opportunity to do another Sign of the Cross.  “Bless you, Joan Caldwell.”

    “Bless you, Father,” said Joan for the first time in her life, and then disappeared inside Los Robles Hospital once again.

5

    The bell mounted on the telephone pole near the outdoor bath stall rang loudly as Carlos exited and closed the gate to Camorrista’s stall.  The ancient rotary phone in the paddock clicked repeatedly in tandem with the ringing outside.

    “Bueno?  Treeple C, Carlos,” the Ranch Foreman answered as he lifted the receiver to his ear.

    “It’s Joan,” said Joan Caldwell, who was calling from the lobby of Los Robles Hospital on her dinosaur of a cell phone.

    “Meese Caldwell, es Colleen okay?” asked Carlos as his eyes began to well up with tears.

    “She’ll be fine, Carlos.  She has a few broken bones, but she’ll be okay,” replied Joan in a composed tone of voice.

    “Eet’s my fault,” said Carlos.  His voice crackled and he swallowed hard.

    “What is?” asked Joan.

    “Eet’s my fault Colleen injured,” said Carlos.

    “That’s ridiculous, Carlos,” Joan reassured in a motherly tone.  “How can it be your fault?”

    “I make the gate slam and Camorrista go loco,” Carlos insisted.”

    “Who?” asked Joan, confused.

    “Camorrista… de horse,” replied Carlos.

    “You call the horse Camorrista?” asked Joan.  “Well, it’s appropriate, but it’s not your fault she went crazy, Carlos.  I knew that filly was trouble when you brought her home,” Joan replied reassuringly.

    “I forget the face of mi Padre,” Carlos crackled as a tear ran down his face.

    “That’s bullshit,” said Joan.  “Your father would be proud of you, Carlos.”

    “You speak to Colleen?” asked Carlos as he wiped away the tear with the sleeve of his shirt.

    “Not yet,” replied Joan.  “Doc says I should be able to see her soon.  He did surgery on the leg, so we’re on our own for a while,” Joan added.

    “Es no problemo, Meese Caldwell,” Carlos said, bucking up in a more confident tone.  “Me and Jesus take care of evryting.”

    “Never doubted that for a second, my old friend,” said Joan.  “How’s… Camorrista?”

    “She settle down now,” replied Carlos.  “I hose her down and look to see if she hurt, but she okay.  She in her stall now,” he added.

    “Good,” said Joan.  “Put George in with her,” instructed Joan, referring to one of the many goats they kept at the Triple C.

    “Si,” said Carlos.  “I go get him now.”

    “What else needs to be done today?” asked Joan.

    “Nada,” said Carlos.  “Jesus take care of feeding but daz about eet,” he replied.

    “Good.  Get cleaned up and come down when you can,” said Joan.

    “Okay,” said Carlos.

    “Oh hey…“ Joan said hurriedly.  “Any sign of the cowboy?”

    “No, Meese Caldwell,” replied Carlos.  “I find his knife on the ground, but I doan see him no more,” he said.

    “Huh…” said Joan.  “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up sometime.”

    “Mebbe,” replied Carlos.  “Mebbe not… Jesus theen he fantasma,” he said.

    “A ghost?” Joan chuckled.

    “Si,” Carlos replied.

    “Now I’ve heard everything today,” Joan added.  “Just tell Jesus to keep an eye out for him in case he comes back.”

    “Okay,” Carlos replied.  “I feenish up here and come to oh-speet-ahl,” said Carlos in his thick Hispanic accent.

    “Sounds good,” said Joan.  “See you soon.”

    “Okay.”  Carlos hung up the phone, took in a deep breath, and leaned against the wooden beam that held the ancient, rotary-style phone.  He pushed the front of his straw hat back with his gloved left hand, rubbed his eyes with his right, and let out a deep sigh.

    Joan Caldwell dialed her aging Nokia cell phone with fingers that were steadier than they had been all morning.  She called her best friend Mae, wife of Ventura County Sheriff Lewis Pennelton Lohr, who for some reason was called “Jeff.”

    “Sheriff’s office, this is Maebelle,” said the chubby, sixty-two year old Office Manager.

    “Mae, it’s Joan”

    “Joan, what’s going on?” Mae said with urgency.  “I heard the ambulance call on the scanner,” she said excitedly.

    “Colleen was trampled by the new filly,” Joan said in a calmer voice than before.

    “Oh my God,” said Mae with a gasp.  “Is she alright?  What happened?”

    “She was beat up pretty good but she’ll be okay.  She broke her leg and her collarbone,” said Joan.

    “Oh my God,” repeated Mae.

    “It was horrible, Mae,” said Joan.  “Her leg was all bloody and the bone was sticking out of it,” Joan said with a swallow.

    “I heard them say ‘fib protrusion’ on the scanner,” informed Mae.

    “Something like that,” replied Joan.

    “Is she gonna be okay?  Jeff’s on his way there already,” she said before Joan could answer.

    “Doc says she’ll be okay,” Joan said with confidence.  “I should be able to see her in a little while.”

    “Good,” said Mae, calming a little.  “I get off at four,” she said.  “Call me after Jeff leaves.”

    “Will do,” replied Joan.

    “She’s a strong girl,” said Mae.  “She’ll be up and around before you know it.”

    “It’ll be awhile, but we’ll manage,” said Joan.  “Carlos has everything under control at home,” she added.

    “He always does,” reassured Mae.

    “I know.  God bless Carlos,” said Joan.  “I’ll call you after while.”

    “Okay.  Talk to you later.  Buh-bye,” Mae said.

    “Bye,” replied Joan, who mashed the wrong button on her Nokia with her thumb.  A long beep emanated from the clunky black cell phone in a low, annoying tone.  Joan hated cell phones.  She read somewhere that the invention of the cell phone was the greatest invention of the modern era… and the worst.  “Stupid phone,” she said as she angled it every which way so that she could see the buttons more clearly.  She found the button she needed to disconnect the call, and then started dialing again.  The series of clicks Joan heard as she held the “greatest invention” to her ear annoyed her.  A frown forced its way to Joan’s face as she contemplated hanging up and trying again.

    “Y- Yello?” the raspy female voice on the other end said sleepily.

    “Hello?” repeated Joan, confused because she never heard the familiar ringing tone before the voice answered.

    “Hello?” the voice said again.

    “Is this Sheila?” said Joan.

    “Yeah,” said Colleen’s thirty-two-year-old best friend Sheila Jones with a loud yawn.

    “Sheila, it’s Joan Caldwell.  Did I wake you up?” asked Joan.

    “That’s okay,” said Sheila with another long yawn.

    Joan informed Sheila about what happened to Colleen a few short hours before.  Sheila was one of three friends that Colleen grew up with and frequently met for “Girls Night Out.”  They always called themselves “The Four Musketeers.”

    Sheila sat up in bed with the phone wedged between her head and shoulder and listened intently to Joan’s story about what happened to her best friend of almost thirty years.

    “I’ll call the others,” said Sheila, referring to the third and fourth “Musketeers.”  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she added.

    “Thanks, Sheila” said Joan.  “See you soon… Bye,” she said and then pressed the correct button for once on her cellular.

6

    Carlos Guzman sat on the bench with his back turned to the old table that stood in the middle of the bunk house.  That table had a few thousand card games, countless games of checkers, and even a hundred matches of chess to its credit.  The inscribed initials from past workers at the Triple C covered its old, nicotine-stained slats.  Some were written in pen and some were written in marker, but the ones that were carved into the table’s dull, light brown finish were the respected ones.  The carved initials made a sort of plaque with the names of the hands that worked hard and left the Triple C with honor and respect.  The last initials permanently carved amongst the cigarette burns and coffee rings were “C.C.” in honor of Chase Caldwell.

    Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, thinking about all that transpired that morning.  He thought about whether or not his initials would be carved on the same table as the ones who will never be forgotten.  The Guzman name never knew the dishonor that Carlos felt as he raised his head and began wringing his hands with intense worry.

    Joan Caldwell sat staring into space as she hugged her knees to her chest in the waiting area across from the elevators that led to the second and third floors of Los Robles Hospital.

    “Joan Caldwell?” the young female voice said as she leaned over to make eye contact with Joan.

    “Yes?” said Joan as she broke her hypnosis and looked up at the young girl, who was holding a white plastic clipboard.

    “Hi, Ms. Caldwell, I’m a volunteer here at Los Robles,” said the young girl who looked the ripe old age of sixteen.

    “Okay…” said Joan as she searched the young brunette for any sign of familiarity and found a white badge with the Los Robles logo and the name “Jamie” printed on it.

    “I just got a call from the second floor, and they said you can see Colleen now,” said Jamie.

    “Oh… wonderful!” said Joan as she gathered her purse.

    “She’s in room two fifty-eight, on the North side,” Jamie said as he hugged her clipboard to her chest.  “Just take the elevator, get off on the second floor, and take a right.  Her room is down the hallway of that wing.  If you can’t find it, just stop at the Nurse’s Station and they’ll show you where it is,” said the girl with a smile.

    “Two fifty-eight,” Joan repeated.  “North side… Thank you,” she said as she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder.

    “My pleasure,” Jamie replied, and then headed back around the corner toward the volunteer desk.

    Joan stepped up to the brown elevators and punched the “up” button with her thumb repeatedly about thirty times.  She let the button rest as she noticed a thin Asian woman in her mid-thirties standing in front of the elevator marked “Employees Only,” looking at her.  She was wearing white uniform slacks and a yellow nurse’s scrub top that had Tigger from Winnie the Pooh all over it and a stethoscope around her neck.

    “Sorry,” Joan said as made eye contact with the nurse.  “Nervous habit.”

    “That okay,” said the nurse with a thick Asian accent, much like that of Doctor Eng.

    The door to the employee elevator opened and the nurse stepped inside.  Joan hit the “up” button one more time for good measure and stepped back, waiting for one of the other doors to open.

    “You can use dis one,” said the Asian nurse, who leaned out the employee elevator door.

    “Okay,” said Joan as she stepped to her left and joined her.

    “What floor?” the nurse asked.

    “Two… please,” replied Joan.

    “Okay.  I go to three,” said the nurse as she punched the button for the second floor once.

    “Thank you,” said Joan.  The elevator door closed.  “I like your top,” remarked Joan.

    “Oh, tank you,” said the nurse, looking down at her scrub top.  “My son like Tigger cause he bounce all time.”

    “Cute,” Joan said with a smile.  “How old is your son?”

    “He four,” said the nurse, whose Los Robles badge had the name “Xia” printed on it.

    The elevator stopped, and Joan heard a dull “ding” as the door opened.  “Have a good day,” said Joan to Xia the nurse.

    “You, too,” replied Xia.

    Joan stepped off the elevator, looked to her left, and then to her right.  She started down the hall to the right as the young volunteer had instructed.  The room numbers were all in the two hundreds, but she didn’t see any that were close to two fifty-eight.  The hallway was lined with all different kinds of machinery and carts which were foreign to Joan.  Some larger pieces of equipment were draped in dull beige-gray vinyl covers, while others looked like computer terminals on rolling carts.

    Joan walked slowly and glanced to her left at each patient room door.  Moaning sounds came from inside some rooms, and series of mechanical beeps came from others.  She passed four or five rooms until she saw a sign above an open door to her right that read, “Nurse’s Station.”  She looked for some kind of reception window as she passed the open doorway, but all she saw were large windows that had embedded wire mesh.  She paused and saw that there were a few nurses sitting in chairs staring at computer monitors in the crowded, brightly-lit room.

    “Can I help you?” said a female voice from behind her.

    “Yes… I’m looking for room two fifty-eight,” Joan said as she turned around to see a nurse in her early forties with reddish-brown, shoulder-length hair.

    “It’s down the hall and around the corner to the right,” said the nurse.  “Here, I’ll show you where it is.”  The nurse started down the hall in the same direction and Joan followed.  The nurse had a Los Robles security badge like everyone else, but it was turned backward so Joan couldn’t read what her name was.

    “Thank you,” replied Joan as she followed.

    “What’s the patient’s name?” asked the nurse without looking back as they turned the corner.

    Joan figured that she asked for security purposes.  She read in the newspaper over the last year or so that a few celebrities had been treated at Los Robles.

“Colleen Caldwell,” replied Joan.

    “Wait here if you would, please,” said the nurse as they approached room 258.

    The door was closed.  The nurse knocked lightly, opened the door and stuck her head inside.  She said something to someone in the room, but Joan couldn’t hear her.  She swung the door open and turned back toward Joan as she put one hand in her scrub top pocket and motioned her in with the other.

    “You can go right in,” said the nurse.

    “Thank you,” said Joan, who took a deep breath and paused where she stood for a second.  She thought to herself that she couldn’t remember the last time she thanked so many people in one day.  Joan stepped slowly through the open doorway as the nurse with the reddish-brown hair held the door handle like a doorman at a five-star hotel.

7

    Joan stepped cautiously toward the hospital bed that held her beautiful thirty-two-year-old daughter-in-law.  Colleen was surrounded by plastic tubes, machines with digital readouts and hanging I.V. bags.  A tall nurse with straight dark hair in a ponytail hovered over Colleen on the opposite side of the bed.  Colleen’s left leg looked like something from a science fiction movie, with shiny metal pins joined together by a thin metal bar on both sides.  Her knee was elevated by a pillow and the rest of her leg was wrapped in a series of dark beige bandages.

    “Hello…  Are you Colleen’s mother?” said the nurse.

    Joan put her hands to her mouth again.  She was shocked at how frail Colleen looked in a hospital gown.  Her beautiful blonde hair was still dirty with show ring dust, and her left arm was in a blue sling. 

    “Yes,” Joan said through her fingers.

    Tears filled her eyes again as she saw the I.V. stuck to the top of Colleen’s left hand with surgical tape.  The thin tubing that was attached led to two boxes mounted on the shiny pole that held two bags of clear fluid at the top.  One was a large bulging rectangular bag and the other was a flatter square one.  A light gray clothespin-like device with a long cord was clipped to her index finger.  Another gray cord ran from under Colleen’s hand, and was also connected to one of the boxes on the pole.

    “She’s been asking for you,” said the nurse.  “Come on over and say hello.”

    “Ma?” Colleen said weakly without opening her eyes.

    Joan lost it.  The closer she got to Colleen’s bed the worse she felt.  She stopped and held her breath in an attempt to stifle her cries.  The nurse walked around the foot of the bed and paused in front of Joan.

    “It’s okay,” the nurse whispered.  “I’ll be right back.”

    Joan walked slowly to the other side of the bed where the nurse stood a few seconds before.  Colleen’s upper body was slightly elevated, and she had a navy blue blood pressure cuff around her upper arm.  Black tubes ran from the cuff to a monitor that had all kinds of lines and numbers on it.

    “Col-,” Joan started, and then stopped with a hard swallow.

    “Ma?” Colleen said again and raised her right hand a few inches.

    Joan leaned over and gently took Colleen’s hand in both of hers.  Colleen’s hand was swollen, and her knuckles had red, ropelike welts on them.  She leaned farther forward and kissed the top of Colleen’s hand.

    “I’m right here, baby,” Joan whispered with a meek, stifled voice.

    Joan brought her left hand to Colleen’s forehead and brushed her dirty hair backward with her fingers.

    “Ma…” Colleen repeated again.

    “Shhh…,” Joan whispered as she brought her face closer to Colleen’s.

    “I have a headache,” Colleen whispered back and opened her eyes slightly.

    Joan kissed Colleen’s forehead and smiled weakly.  A tear ran slowly down Colleen’s right cheek.

    “You do?” said Joan with a sniffle.

    “Tequila,” Colleen replied meekly, and then closed her eyes again.

    “Yeah… tequila,” Joan repeated.

    “Seepy,” Colleen whispered.

    “I know, honey,” said Joan.  “Go to sleep.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Ma?” Colleen said more audibly without opening her eyes.

“I’m right here, baby,” Joan said as she continued to brush her fingers through Colleen’s hair.

    “I love you,” Colleen said as another tear streaked down her cheek.

    “I love you, too,” replied Joan, choked up again.

Colleen fell fast asleep.  Joan placed Colleen’s right hand at her side, stood up and wiped her own tears again.  The nurse re-entered the room and approached the opposite side of the bed.

    “She’ll be in and out for the next few hours,” said the nurse.  “There’s a recliner right there for you.  If you’re hungry I can find a snack or something around here somewhere.”

    “I’m fine,” said Joan.

    “Well, my name is Amy, and I’ll be Colleen’s nurse until about seven.  I’ll check on her periodically throughout the afternoon,” informed the nurse.

    “Okay,” replied Joan.  “There might be a few people stopping by to visit Colleen… Is that okay?”

    “That’s fine,” said the nurse.  “She should rest as much as possible today, though.”

    “Okay,” Joan replied again.

    “See you in a little while,” said Amy the nurse.

    “I’ll be here,” replied Joan with a big sigh.

    Joan made her way to the recliner, which looked more like a dentist’s chair.  She set her purse down beside the recliner and then sat down, exhausted.  She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with both hands.  Joan Caldwell had a headache of her own.

8

    The headache Sheila Jones was suffering from was self-induced, just like the rest of the “Four Musketeers.”  The pillow top mattress that her husband bought to stifle her complaints a few weeks before was too comfortable for words on such a hung-over morning.  She swore that the new mattress called to her, beckoning her to return to a deep slumber.  “I can’t,” she said aloud to herself.  Something on the nightstand caught her eye as she sat on the edge of the bed.  Taped to the brushed nickel touch lamp was a folded piece of paper.  “SJJMB” was written in pen on the outside.

    Sheila leaned forward, grabbed the folded piece of paper and sat back down on the edge of the bed with a short grunt.  She massaged her forehead with one hand and opened the note with the other.  The edges of the paper shook as she held the note with uneasy fingers.

S,

Got paged for an open heart at 0415.  I cleaned the toilet.  You OWE ME!  Hangover remedy in the fridge.

Love,

J

    “Cleaned the toilet?” Sheila asked herself aloud.  “Shit.”  Sheila let the note drop to the floor and let herself fall backward on the bed.  She massaged her aching stomach and ribs.  Her husband was a skilled cardiac surgeon, but she swore that he could make millions just from his hangover remedies.  The one she liked best was the banana peel water remedy.  He boiled two banana peels in a cup of water, removed the peels and left the water in the fridge to cool for Sheila to drink.  That one never failed.

    “Up,” Sheila said aloud as she sat up again.  She found herself wondering how she got into her silk pajamas.  She didn’t remember putting them on, much less getting into bed.  She also didn’t remember throwing up, but guessed that’s what her husband meant by “I cleaned the toilet.”

    Sheila picked up the phone and called Musketeer number three, thirty-two-year-old Karen “K.P.” Phillips, and then Musketeer number four, thirty-three-year-old Jesse “Jezebel” Troutdale.  Both were in a similar condition to Sheila’s.  They agreed that Sheila would go to the hospital, and then call them once she knew Colleen’s condition.

    The new pillow top mattress finally let go of Sheila as she stood up and headed for the kitchen.  The leg of one of the chairs at the kitchen table caught Sheila’s “pinky toe” on her right foot as she stumbled lazily toward the stainless steel fridge that held her remedy.

    “Owie!” Sheila screamed as she hopped up and down on her left foot, grabbing her toe in pain.  “Son-of-a-BITCH!” she said aloud as she bit her lip and steadied herself against the kitchen counter.  Sheila let go of her foot and opened the fridge.  She took in a deep breath through her nostrils.  “Nan-nuh,” she said aloud as the smell of boiled banana peels filled the rest of the kitchen.  Her white ceramic “Snoopy” cup was perched in front of the carton of orange juice, right where it found itself the morning after the last “Girls Night Out” the month before.

    Sheila downed the ice cold banana-infused water, set “Snoopy” in the sink and limped for the shower.  Sheila just knew it was going to be a long day.

9

    Joan Caldwell sat sleepily in the recliner in Room 258 at Los Robles Hospital.  Colleen’s steady heavy breathing comforted her.  She replayed the events that happened earlier that morning, and thought about how Colleen struggled for air as she lay helplessly in the middle of the show ring.  Joan looked out the picture window in the same kind of hypnotic stare that she fell into while she was sitting in the waiting area earlier.

    The large, room-length window overlooked a parking lot full of differently-colored construction trailers arranged randomly amongst tall pines and oak trees.  Joan felt the heat of the day radiate through the double-paned glass like a brick oven in an old pizzeria.

    She thought about Carlos.  She wondered how he could blame himself for what happened.  Nobody was to blame, except perhaps a black filly full of rage in the Southern California heat.  Carlos seemed to be the only one who could handle Camorrista’s temper tantrums effectively.  For that matter, she thought to herself, Carlos was the only one who could handle her own temper tantrums.  Chase used to clam up and avoid her when her own rage got the best of her.

    She tried to keep the rage to herself back then, but Carlos always got the brunt of it.  He was the only one who could put Joan at ease during her countless tirades whenever Chase’s father was caught with his Hollywood whores.  Carlos had what Joan referred to as a “wet shoulder.”  Not only did he get the brunt of Joan’s rage, but he shouldered buckets of tears resulting from so many episodes of loss and guilt over the years.  The loss of Joan’s baby from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome brought waterfalls to Carlos’ shoulders time and time again in the months following her daughter’s death.

    Joan’s thoughts of Carlos brought some peace to her aching heart.  He never said much when Joan needed a shoulder to cry on.  He never needed to.  The warmth that she felt from the picture window in Room 258 at Los Robles Hospital took her back in time.  She stared sleepily at the pines and oak trees that swayed in the hot summer sun.  The window’s heat made her think of the warmth one feels after drinking wine.  It had been years since she felt what that was like.  Joan closed her eyes and searched her memories for the last time such fiery warmth filled her body.

    Joan wondered if it had really been fifteen years since she felt so toasty inside.  She sighed deeply as the images flooded back to her mind.  Images of red wine danced on the insides of her eyelids.  She drank more in the three days following her husband’s death than she ever had before.  She needed something to subdue her for Chase’s sake, and red wine was it.  Wine kept Joan on an even keel.  It stifled the emotions of near jubilation she felt when Carl Caldwell, philanderer, alcoholic, and owner of The Double C Ranch let out his last living breath.  The well-stocked wine cellar dwindled quickly in the three days leading up to his funeral.

    Countless bottles of liquid courage disappeared as Joan struggled to hide her emotions from Chase, who adored his father.  She hid what she felt deep inside from the constant flow of visitors and mourners that dropped by during that three-day period.  Family, vendors, friends, and even some of the women that Joan knew to be Carl’s Hollywood whores attended the memorial service at the Double C, and the red wine held back Joan’s pent-up emotions brilliantly.

    The same wine that kept Joan numb during the funeral fueled a flame of a different kind later that night.  Joan sat alone in the soft leather high-backed chair in Carl’s study, which was a place where she was never invited.  It was well after eleven o’clock, and the last of the mourners had gone from the Double C.  A near-empty glass of Château Pétrus Merlot sat on the table, waiting for Joan to finish the last swallow.  The smell of an intoxicating combination of Onyx cigar smoke and vintage port wine filled the study as Joan slipped her high heels from her aching feet and let them drop to the Persian carpet below.

    “Meese Joan?” Carlos said in a meek voice from the open doorway.

“Hi, Carlos.  Come in,” Joan slurred as she sat up in the leather chair.

    “I just come by to see if you need anyting,” said Carlos, who held his straw hat over his chest respectfully.

    Joan slowly stood and walked a few steps to where Carlos was standing in the doorway.  Her glassy eyes began to well with tears as Carlos placed his hat on the coffee table and held out his hands in an open offer to comfort Joan once again.

    “Carlos,” Joan said as she wrapped her arms around the Double C Ranch Foreman’s neck and pressed her left cheek to his.  Carlos hugged Joan tightly and joined his fingers together in the small of her back.

    “Eet be okay, Meese Joan,” Carlos said softly into Joan’s ear.

    Joan began running her fingers through Carlos’ thick black hair.  Carlos pulled his head back slightly and pressed his lips to Joan’s forehead.  He took in a deep breath as the smell of Joan’s perfumed hair filled his nostrils.

    “I know,” whispered Joan as she closed her eyes.

    Carlos felt the heat emanating from the forty-six-year-old woman dressed in black as she returned her cheek to his and continued to run her fingers through his hair.  He felt her hot breath on his neck as she pressed her body firmly to his.

    “What would I do without you?” Joan whispered as she turned her head slightly and pressed her lips against Carlos’ left ear.

    “I don’t go nowhere,” said Carlos reassuringly.

    Joan’s hands moved through Carlos’ hair more quickly as she tilted her head slightly and kissed his neck.  Carlos unlocked his fingers and moved his hands away from the small of Joan’s back.  Shivers made their way down his spine.

    “Thank God for you, my friend,” Joan whispered as she breathed heavily into Carlos’ ear.

    Carlos placed his hands on Joan’s waist.  He began to feel the pressure build deep in his loins as the beautiful widow touched and kissed his neck softly.

    “Meese Joan,” began Carlos.

    “Carlos,” Joan whispered in a soft moan as she continued to kiss Carlos’ neck and ear.

    “Meese Joan,” Carlos repeated.  “I doan think-“

    “Don’t think what?” interrupted Joan.  She leaned back slightly and looked deeply into Carlos’ eyes.  She stood on her toes, pressed her fingers against the back of his head and gently brought her moistened lips to his.  Carlos tilted his head back slightly, breaking the brief kiss.

    “I doan think-“ Carlos repeated again.

    “I need you, Carlos,” Joan again interrupted, and then pressed her lips more forcefully against his.

    The mounting pressure of Carlos’ loins pressed against Joan’s dress as she hugged his neck tightly with her arms.  She let out a soft moan as she opened her mouth slightly and brushed Carlos’ lips with the tip of her tongue.  Carlos tried with all his might to resist Joan, but was quickly losing the battle.

    Carlos pushed Joan’s hips away from his.  She clung tightly with her arms around his neck, but let go as Carlos pushed her away with more force.  Joan felt confused as she dropped back to her heels, which broke the passionate kiss once again.

    Carlos let go of Joan’s waist and grasped her arms, which rested idly on his shoulders.  She searched Carlos’ face in her alcohol-induced state, but her desire for Carlos consumed her as he stepped backward and let go of her arms.  Joan wanted Carlos with every fiber of her being.

    Without saying a word, Carlos turned and took a step toward the table that held his straw hat.  He leaned over slightly and adjusted the uncomfortable erection caged tightly in his dress pants.

    “Carlos,” Joan called softly.

    “Si,” Carlos replied without turning around.

    “Carlos, please,” Joan pleaded, slurring her words again badly.

    Carlos grabbed his hat, held it with both hands over his protruding erection and turned slowly again to face Joan.  He took in quick, deep breath and swallowed hard.  Joan stood with her hands at her sides and her dress gathered in a circle around her feet.  Her long brown hair, which was usually tied up and held tightly to the back of her head, flowed loosely about her bare shoulders.  Her vivacious, braless breasts heaved as Joan stood breathing deeply in the dimly lit den.

    “Make love to me, Carlos… Please?” Joan pleaded.

    Carlos stood uncomfortably a few steps away without saying a word.  Joan stood with her right leg bent slightly, and began caressing her tummy suggestively with her fingers.  She was wearing black, French-cut panties that rode high on her narrow, smooth, creamy white hips.  Her panties were darkened slightly with dewy moistness between her firm thighs.

    Carlos turned away again, paused for a moment, and placed his hat gently back on the table.  He took in a long, deep breath and turned once again to face the beautiful woman who so eagerly yearned for him.  Joan gasped as Carlos approached her, put his left arm under her right arm and around her bare back, and leaned over to put his right arm behind her knees.  Joan put her arms around Carlos’ neck and he lifted her effortlessly from the black dress that was at her feet.

    “Oh, Carlos,” Joan moaned.

    Carlos carried Joan a few steps to the soft leather couch which sat invitingly against the dark, trophy-filled wall of shelves.  The couch made the kind of noise leather makes when bare skin moves against it as Carlos gently placed Joan’s glistening body onto its soft cushions.  Joan’s breasts teetered heavily back and forth as she let go of Carlos’ neck and positioned herself suggestively.  Her erect nipples ached in anticipation.

    Carlos stood up and looked down at Joan, who was ready for the taking.  Joan lifted her right hand and began to gently caress his large, bulging erection through his dress pants.  Carlos stepped backward a step, just out of Joan’s reach.  She sat up slightly and reached drunkenly for Carlos’ belt, but missed.

    “No more wine,” said Carlos plainly, which surprised Joan.

    “What?” Joan asked as she sat back on her elbows, confused.

    “You drink too much wine, Meese Joan,” replied Carlos.

    “That’s horseshit, and you know it,” slurred Joan.

    Carlos turned away from Joan, walked quickly back to the table, and retrieved his hat again.  He combed his hair backward with his fingers, and then placed the hat atop his head.  He pivoted on his heels and faced Joan for the last time that evening.

    “Good night, Meese Joan,” Carlos said as he touched the brim of his hat, bowed to Joan, and then turned and left the study.

    Carlos and Joan never spoke again about what happened that night.  Carlos never brought it up, and neither did Joan.  Unlike Carl Caldwell, Carlos Guzman never made her feel guilty about anything.  Carlos Guzman was a Saint.

10

    Ventura County Sheriff “Jeff” Lohr knew his way around Los Robles Hospital.  Too many times he found himself choking down a dry piece of banana-walnut bread from the coffee cart outside the waiting area.  The coffee there was better than the bitter dregs he usually served himself from the cafeteria in the lower level, but the coffee cart was closed on Sundays.  On days that Maebelle didn’t work in the office, she usually sent him on his way with a thermos full of the good stuff.  Maebelle always made the best coffee in the county as far as Jeff was concerned.

    “Knock knock,” Jeff said softly as he tapped the heavy wooden door with his knuckle and peered into Room 258.

    Joan opened her eyes and sat up in the recliner.  “I can’t believe Maebelle still lets you wear that damn thing,” she said as she stood up and stretched her back.

    “She knows I’d get out the whip again if she ever threw it away,” Jeff replied matter-of-factly.  He removed his “Indiana Jones” Fedora hat and entered the room.  “How’s the patient?”

    Jeff stood at the foot of Colleen’s bed a few feet away from Joan.  He held his brown “Indy Hat” in both hands and stroked the fur brim with his thumbs, which was a habit of his.  Jeff Lohr was a handsome man at sixty-four.  His thinning peppered hair was combed backward and not one strand was out of place.  His beige, long-sleeved uniform shirt was well-pressed and the bottom of his brown tie met his belt buckle at the perfect length.  His wiry six-foot-tall stature had seen plenty of action in the thirty plus years in the Department, and he was always known as “firm and fair” to everyone who had dealings with him over the years.

    “She’ll be okay,” replied Joan.  “She’s pretty beat up, but you know her.  She won’t be in that bed for long.”

    “You’re probably right,” said Jeff with a sigh.  “How about you?  How you holdin’ up?” he asked.

    “I’m exhausted… Good to see you, Jeff.”

    “Good to see you too, Joan.  Too bad it’s gotta be under these circumstances,” he said as he looked down at Joan and gave her a shoulder-to-shoulder hug.

    “I know.  I don’t get out much these days.  Now you’ll see even less of me for a while, I ‘spect.”

    “You’ll be fine,” said Jeff as he gave Joan’s shoulder another squeeze.  “Your Ranch Foreman will keep things hoppin’ over there.  He’s a good man.”

    “One in a million,” replied Joan.

    Jeff let go of Joan’s shoulder and turned to face her.  He resumed stroking the hat with his thumbs.  “So what happened?” he asked, going into “Sheriff” mode.

    “I don’t know a whole hell of a lot,” Joan replied Joan as she turned squarely to Jeff.  “I was washing dishes.  Colleen was already up and out when I got up, so I cleaned up a little.  She came in late last night.  Girls’ night out, I think…  Anyway, I was doing the dishes, and I heard yelling.  I didn’t recognize the voice, but there was lots of yelling.  I went to the front door, and saw that the new filly was goin’ crazy in the middle of the show ring.  It was like a tornado out there, and I couldn’t see Colleen at first.  All I saw was the filly and this cowboy in a blue shirt.”

    “What kind of a blue shirt?” asked Jeff as Joan paused for a second.

    “It was like flannel.  Long-sleeved.”

    “Okay… what else did you see?” Jeff asked.

    “The cowboy was holding the filly’s rope, and he was wrestling with her.  She was going ape shit.  Colleen was lying in the dirt, but she wasn’t moving.  I could barely see her lying there.  I started to run for the show ring, but the cowboy yelled and told me to call an ambulance, so I ran back in the house and called 9-1-1.”

    “You referred to the guy as a ‘cowboy.’  What made him look like a cowboy other than the blue flannel shirt?” Jeff continued with his line of questioning.

    “I don’t know.  I guess he just looked like he belonged there,” replied Joan.

    “So you called 9-1-1, and then what?” Jeff continued.

    “They told me to go wait in the driveway for the ambulance, and then when I got there I couldn’t see the show ring anymore.”

    “Who told you to wait in the driveway?” asked Jeff, confused for the moment.

“The 9-1-1 Operator,” replied Joan.

    “Oh, right,” nodded Jeff.  “I’m with ya.”

    “When the ambulance got there, I ran to the show ring, and all I saw was Carlos kneeling by Colleen, and Jesus, our Assistant Ranch Foreman had the filly tied to the fence.”  Joan paused for a second again and tried to remember if she forgot anything.  “That’s about it.  The ambulance got there and took care of her.”

    “So where was the cowboy?” asked Jeff as he scratched his forehead with his right thumb.

    “That’s just it,” Joan said as she tilted her head to the left and squinted.  “He just disappeared…  Oh… but he wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore after that.”

    “How do you know that?” asked Jeff.

    “Because it was in shreds,” Joan closed her eyes and nodded.

    “Shreds?”

    “Yeah.  He must have ripped it up because part of it was wrapped around Colleen’s leg.  The other part was under her head.  The ambulance driver said that whoever bandaged her up knew what they were doing.”

    “Interesting,” said Jeff.

    Colleen took in a loud, deep breath and turned her head slightly to the left as she let it out.  Joan and Jeff paused and looked at her from the foot of the bed.

    “Man, she’s out, isn’t she?” asked Jeff.

    “Yeah,” replied Joan.  “I imagine Doc has her on some pretty heavy shit for the pain.”

    “I’ll bet,” agreed Jeff.  “See that thing in her hand?”

    “What thing?” asked Joan.

    “That thing,” replied Jeff.

    Joan leaned over the foot of the bed a little to see what Jeff was pointing at.  In Colleen’s hand was a grayish-colored, cigar-shaped thingamabob that had a long cord sticking out.  The cord was connected at the other end to a gray box mounted on the I.V. pole.

    “I see it now.  What is it?” Joan asked.

    “It’s a button that Colleen can push when she needs a little more of the good shit for the pain.  It squirts the medication right into her I.V.” informed Jeff.

    “No shit,” said Joan as she stood up straight.

    “Good shit,” replied Jeff with a chuckle.

    “Good shit?” a female voice asked from the doorway.

    “Sheila Jones,” Joan and Jeff turned their heads and said in unison.

    “The one… and only,” Sheila said as she posed like Vanna White at the beginning of a new puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

    “Good shit,” said Colleen weakly, drawing everyone’s attention back to the hospital bed.  Colleen’s eyes were still closed, but her forehead was wrinkled with a frown.  Sheila approached Colleen’s left side and leaned over her.

    “Hey,” Sheila said softly.

    “Hey,” replied Colleen sleepily, still frowning.

    “What happened?  Did the Dial-a-Ride guy beat you up last night?” Sheila asked with a weak smile.

    “Pfft,” Colleen replied.  “Show ‘em your tattoo,” she slurred.

    “Tattoo?” asked Joan from the foot of the bed.

    “Never mind,” said Sheila without looking up.  “Just a little inside joke.”

    “Inside joke,” Colleen repeated.

    “Hello,” Amy the nurse said to everyone as she entered the room with a small, clear plastic bag in her hand.

    “Hello,” Sheila said as she stood up and looked at the nurse.

    “Afternoon,” replied Jeff.

    Amy the nurse approached the pole that held Colleen’s I.V. bags and Sheila shuffled toward the foot of the bed to get out of her way.

    “You’re fine,” Amy said as she began to replace the empty square bag on the I.V. pole with the new one she brought with her.  “Busy place today,” she said without looking away from what she was doing.

    “We should probably leave the room and let the nurse do what she needs to do,” said Joan.

    “You don’t have to leave,” replied Amy.  “I’m almost done here.”

    “We should let her rest for a while anyway,” Joan said.  “She’s had a rough day.”

    “Rough day,” Colleen repeated.

    Jeff and Sheila chuckled.  Joan turned and grabbed her purse from the recliner, slung it over her shoulder.  Jeff stood and followed her with his eyes as she walked a few steps to the head of the bed, leaned over Colleen, and kissed her forehead.

    “Get some sleep, baby,” Joan whispered to Colleen.

    “Seep,” Colleen whispered back.

    Joan brushed Colleen’s hair with her fingers and then stood up.  “Let’s go downstairs to the little garden thing,” Joan invited as she addressed the others.

    “Sounds good,” said Jeff.

    “Okay,” said Sheila.

    Sheila shuffled back to the head of the bed and touched Colleen’s left cheek with the back of her hand.  “Sleep well, my friend,” she whispered to Colleen.

    “Seep,” Colleen repeated again in a whisper.

    Jeff placed his Indy hat back atop his head, ran his fingers along the brim to make sure it was on straight, and headed for the doorway.  Sheila followed Jeff and Joan trailed behind them.

    “I’ll be back,” Joan said to Amy the nurse, who was still standing at the I.V. pole at the head of the bed.

    “Okay.  I’ll be around.  I’m on until seven,” Amy said.

    Joan paused at the doorway to look at Colleen one last time, sighed heavily, and then left the room.

11

    Carlos Guzman stepped off the elevator on the second floor of Los Robles Hospital with a heavy heart.  He knew that the yellow roses that were cradled in his right arm were not nearly enough to make things right with Colleen.  Carlos had seen enough guilt in the Caldwell’s lives for a lifetime, but now the Guzman surname shouldered more guilt than twenty generations before him.

    The young girl at the volunteer desk in the waiting area made Carlos feel welcome at Los Robles, but the heat that emanated from the doorway of Room 258 made him uncomfortable.  The baby’s breath that accompanied the roses shook in his aching hands as he quietly tip-toed into Colleen’s room.  Beads of sweat formed at his temples and dripped slowly down the sides of his face as he stood at the small, empty table at the foot of the hospital bed.

    The attractive young Ranch Owner, whom he often jokingly referred to as “Boss,” lay motionless before him in the hospital bed.  Colleen’s beautiful face was masked with a grimace, which Carlos thought was from extreme pain.  His eyes erupted with tears.  The vase that held the roses made a soft “clunk” as he placed them on the table.

“Ma?” Colleen called sleepily.

Carlos wiped away the tears with the back of his hands as he moved around the edge of the bed to Colleen’s right.

    “Ma?” Colleen called again and raised her right arm in the air.

    Carlos stood at the side of the bed and held his breath.  Waves of despair convulsed in the pit of his stomach as he tried to hold back the sobs that he knew would eventually overtake him.  Colleen slowly waved her unsteady arm in the air trying to find her mother-in-law’s hand.

    “Meese Caldwell?” Carlos called in a throaty whisper.

    Colleen opened her eyelids slightly with a flutter.  Her eyes sparkled through her eyelashes as she fought to keep them open.  She weakly cleared her throat, closed her eyes again tightly, and then turned her head toward Carlos.  With an involuntary twitch, the cigar-shaped “pain button” that was in her left hand freed itself and rolled slowly down her tummy.

    “Los?” Colleen said as she opened her eyes again.

    Carlos placed his right hand on the bedrail and leaned over Colleen.  Tears rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the teal green blanket that covered her.  Colleen steadied her arm in her first moment of clarity as she placed her hand atop Carlos’ on the bedrail.  She smiled weakly and gently caressed the top of his rugged hand.

    Carlos could no longer contain his despair.  His legs shook as he fell to one knee, bowed his head and began to sob uncontrollably.  Colleen slowly lifted her hand and touched the forehead of the troubled Ranch Foreman with the back of her hand.  Carlos whimpered.

    “Los…  What’s wrong, my friend?” Colleen asked.

    Colleen began gently caressing his short, thick hair on the top of his head with her fingers.  Carlos felt as if his heart was going to explode.  Colleen was the one who was nearly killed, and she was the strong one doing the comforting.  Carlos tried to compose himself as he lifted his head and met Colleen’s eyes with his.  Colleen placed her hand atop his again on the bedrail.

    “I…” Carlos began, and then stopped to clear his throat.

    “What’s wrong, Los?” Colleen asked.

    “Es my faulta,” Carlos said.

    “What is?” asked Colleen, confused.

    “De gate…” said Carlos with a swallow.

    “The gate?” Colleen asked.

    “Si… I slam de gate, and Camorrista, she go loco,” said Carlos.

    “Camo… Who is Camo…” Colleen asked.

    “Camorrista… La potranca,” Carlos said in his native tongue.

    “The filly?  You call her Camorrista?” Colleen queried.

    “Si,” said Carlos.  “She go loco when de gate bang shut.”

    “That’s not your fault, Carlos,” Colleen said strongly as she squeezed his hand.  “La potranca es loco sin embargo,” Colleen said in perfect Spanish.  “The filly is crazy anyway.”

    “I know, Boss,” said Carlos, lightening up a little.

    Colleen raised her arm and touched the back of her hand to the side of his face.

    “I still hate it when you call me that,” Colleen said with a smile for the first time that day.

    “Sorry,” said Carlos with a weak smile in return.

    Colleen repositioned her head on the flat hospital pillow and let her arm drop do her side.  She lowered her chin and looked at Carlos out of the top of her eyes as she always did when she had something important to say, and wanted him to pay close attention.

    “Listen to me,” said Colleen sternly.  “I knew what I was getting when I bought that bitch.  The only one who made a mistake was… what do you call her?”

    “Camorrista,” Carlos replied.

    “The only one who made a mistake today was Camorrista.  She fucked with the wrong cowgirl.  I’ll deal with her as soon as I can get this crap off my leg.  Until then, just keep her in her pen and don’t let anyone but you or Jesus near her.”  Colleen paused, lifted her chin, and looked Carlos squarely in the eyes.  “Camorrista,” said Colleen with a scoff.  “That’s the perfect name, ‘cuz so far she’s caused nothin’ but trouble.  Just keep doing what you do best, Carlos, and I don’t want to hear anymore about how it’s your fault.  Comprende’?”

    “Okay, B-, Meese Caldwell” Carlos said as he lifted his head a bit higher like he was kneeling at attention.

    “I’m tired and I have a headache,” Colleen said as she started to slur again.  “Where’s the thing?”

    “De ting?” Carlos asked.

    “Yeah.  The thing,” Colleen replied as she closed her eyes with a wince.  She made motions with her left thumb, indicating that she was referring to the “pain button” that had fallen.  Carlos stood up, reached for the pain button, and positioned it in Colleen’s left hand.  Colleen pushed the button on the end of the cigar-shaped apparatus repeatedly and the gray box on the I.V. pole emitted a short chirp.

    “Where’s Meese Joan?” asked Colleen, mocking Carlos with a heavy slur.

    “I doan know,” replied Carlos.  “I doan see her when I come here.”

    Carlos wiped his eyes again with the back of his hand.  He took a white handkerchief from the front pocket of his slacks and blew his nose.  Colleen drifted back into sedation as she positioned her head comfortably on the pillow.  Carlos put the handkerchief in his pocket and made his way back toward the doorway of Room 258.  Colleen sighed heavily as Carlos paused at the end of the bed, turned back toward her and did a slow Sign of the Cross over his chest.  He then bowed his head and said a long, silent prayer for the strong, gorgeous Colleen Caldwell.


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