Only With Me (Sugarland Creek #4)

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Harlow

I ’m tempted to chuck my phone out the window as I drive home.

I repeat his message in my head over and over, getting angrier each time.

Hey, I’m so sorry I didn’t text sooner. A work thing happened, and I wasn’t able to get away.

Normally, I wouldn’t get upset about someone having to cancel at the last minute because shit happens, but he didn’t text me until he was already twenty minutes late nor did he offer to reschedule.

When it comes to dating and guys, I seriously have no asshole radar because he fooled me big time.

Another part of me wonders if he’s lying and was here, saw me, and then left.

But his loss. I look damn good today and he missed out.

Yep, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Since Mom’s working at the hospital today, I’m home with Dad, but he went to take a nap shortly before I left. Even though I want to storm into the house, I don’t want to wake him.

Moose greets me at the door, acting like he has to go potty. “Hold on, sweetie.”

Figuring the other two dogs need to go outside, too, I go to my parents’ bedroom and quietly open the door. The backyard is fenced in, so they can roam freely.

“Sasha, Shelby…outside,” I whisper the magic word just loud enough for them to hear me.

They usually sleep on the bed with my parents, but they’re sitting in front of the master en suite, whimpering.

“Dad?” I step in and flick on the light, noticing he’s not in here.

I call out his name again, this time louder, and knock on the bathroom door. “Dad, are you okay?”

No answer.

Looking around, I notice his power chair is in the corner, but his walker is missing. He typically uses it to hop from the bed to the bathroom since the power chair is too big for the space.

I knock harder and then try the knob. It turns, but it won’t open. Something’s blocking it.

“Dad! Can you hear me?” I scream, trying to push through whatever is against it.

After a few more attempts, it opens just enough for me to peek inside and look at the floor.

My dad’s face-down and there’s blood around his head.

“Oh my God, Dad! Wake up!” I try shoving the door again, but the walker or his leg is blocking it, I can’t quite see, but I know I need to get in there. Who knows how long he’s been there and bleeding out.

I rush out of the house and run toward the bathroom window. The screen pops out, but it’s locked.

“Goddammit.”

Sprinting to the garage, I grab my metal bat and then smash it through the glass. Then I reach through and unlock it, accidentally drawing blood across my palm when I slice it against an exposed piece.

Ignoring it, I push up the window and then climb through—which is harder than I anticipated, but I manage to stabilize myself on the toilet seat and then step down so I can reach him.

“Dad, can you hear me?” Kneeling beside him, I press my fingers to his neck and blow out a relieved breath when I feel his pulse.

“Harlow?” he barely gets out.

“Oh, thank God.” I grab the hand towel and press it against the cut on the side of his face. “Don’t try to move. You must’ve fallen into the counter and smacked your head.”

“I tried to catch myself with my right foot,” he mutters, his eyes barely fluttering open. “Forgot it wasn’t there anymore.”

“I know, Dad. It’s okay. Gonna call for an ambulance.”

Even after all this time, he instinctively tries to use his foot, but then goes down because there’s no support to hold him up.

“No, no, I’m fine.”

I snort. “You need to get your head checked out. Also, I think the bottom of your stump is bleedin’.”

He groans. “It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

When they did the emergency amputation, they eventually had to do skin grafts, so there’s no fatty tissue to pad the bottom. It’s mostly bone with a thin layer of skin on top.

Once my call is connected, I explain the situation and that I’m too afraid to move his body, but it’s blocking the door for anyone to come in. The operator walks me through how to carefully shift him without further damaging anything or adding to his pain, but when I do, Dad groans.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“I can crawl,” he says, lifting on his elbows just enough to get the door open.

“He’s conscious?” the operator asks.

“Yeah, but I’m worried he could have swellin’ in his brain or broken a rib from how he fell,” I explain. “I dunno how long he was out before I found him. He has a head wound, too.”

She continues asking questions while we wait for the EMTs to arrive and then I notice Dad’s breathing sounds off.

“You okay?” I ask, studying his face.

“I dunno,” he replies. “I think…it might be a panic attack.”

“Oh shit. What’s their ETA?” I ask the operator.

This isn’t my first rodeo with calling for help. Dad’s had a few big falls over the years, but this is the first time he’s ever smacked his head hard enough to lose consciousness.

“Three minutes. Keep him talkin’.”

“Dad, tell me about the day you met Mama.”

I’ve heard this story a dozen times, but it’s one he should without a doubt have memorized.

Although his speech is slow and he breaks to catch his breath, he tells me about how he spotted her at a party and the noise around him just stopped when their eyes locked. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met and was determined to talk to her before the end of the night. But then he learned she had a boyfriend, the quarterback of all people, and he was a?—

“Dad?” I shake his arm when he stops talking and his eyes close.

“I think he blacked out again,” I tell the operator.

“The ambulance should be there,” she tells me, and then a second later, I hear the dogs losing their shit.

“They are now,” I tell her.

“Okay. They’ll take good care of you.”

“Thank you.” I hang up and get to my feet so I can direct them where we are.

Multiple EMTs and firemen enter with their gear and a stretcher. The house suddenly feels too small with this many people, but I quickly show them where he’s lying.

“He was speakin’ a moment ago and then stopped,” I explain. “Did they tell you he’s an amputee? His stump got banged up too.”

“We’ll check him out. Don’t worry, miss.” A woman who doesn’t look much older than me says, patting my arm before walking past me.

A few of them squeeze through the bathroom door that’s still halfway blocked, and I quickly wrangle the dogs into their crates so they don’t get loose.

I still need to text my mom and Delilah, but I’m anxious for an update. I can’t see since they’re still in the bathroom, but after ten minutes, one of the bulkier firemen carries him out of the bathroom and gently places him onto the stretcher.

My dad’s not a massive guy, but he’s not small either. He’s six-foot and his upper body is muscular from years working on the farm with livestock. The lower half of him is weaker due to muscle atrophy, which is why it’s so easy for him to fall when he loses his balance.

“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask nervously.

“His blood pressure is low and the cut on his head needs sutures. I’m guessin’ a CT scan and fluids, too.”

“Can I ride with him?” I ask.

“Absolutely. You should get your hand looked at while we’re there, too,” she says, nodding down toward the blood flowing down my wrist and arm.

I forgot about it until she mentioned it.

“I’ll worry about it once I get an update on him,” I tell her.

While they get him situated into the ambulance, I quickly text Mom and Delilah, giving them as much information as I can. Mom’s already there, so she’ll meet us in the ER. Delilah’s trying to get someone to cover her shift so she can leave work early.

I hold Dad’s hand during the ride, the sirens blaring as we drive to the next town. He’s still unconscious, but they’re checking his vitals and giving him oxygen and fluids.

Twenty minutes later, everyone rushes out of the back, and they put him into a trauma room.

Nurses swarm his side, and I stay back frozen, feeling helpless.

“Harlow!”

My eyes snap to the side when I hear my mom’s voice rushing toward me.

“Are you okay?” She smothers me in her arms, holding my head to her chest.

“I’m worried about him.”

“I know, sweetie. They’re gonna take good care of him.”

They won’t allow her to treat him, so all we can do is wait for now.

“Lemme check out your hand,” she says, grabbing it.

“It’s fine. But we’re gonna need a new window.” I tense, hoping she’s not upset about that.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she says softly, leading me to a triage room. “Your fight or flight response is always one step ahead of your brain.”

She’s referring to the home invasion.

Had I not reacted the way I did—in fight mode—the guy would’ve never gotten the bat out of my hand and then used it against me.

But maybe he shouldn’t have tried to rob us in the first place.

“At least there’s a lot less blood this time,” I say to lighten the mood.

“Thank God,” she murmurs. “But you’re still at risk for infection if we don’t get the glass out and clean it.”

It’s not until after my hand is bandaged and we’re sitting outside Dad’s room, waiting for him to return from a CT scan, that the severity of the situation slams into my chest. Tears well in my eyes as the emotions overwhelm my senses and my heart races to catch up with my rapid breathing.

I count to twenty, waiting for the anxiety attack to pass, and squeeze Mom’s hand.

“I know the situation is different, but is this how it felt waitin’ to hear if I was alive or not?”

Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer. “Think about the worst moment of your life and then times that by infinity when it’s your child.”

I choke up, wiping my face because I can’t even imagine how bad it must’ve been. “I hate that you guys went through that.”

“I’ve never prayed harder for God to spare your life because if he hadn’t, I threatened to go into that boy’s hospital room and make sure he didn’t live. After your dad shot him, he needed surgery to stop the bleeding, but at that moment, I didn’t care. If you didn’t make it, he didn’t deserve to either.”

I’ve never heard her speak this way before. She was always so gentle and caring, but knowing what I must’ve looked like and how many injuries I had, I can’t say I blame her for being so angry.

“But after I prayed and prayed, I knew there was another Mama nearby beggin’ for her child’s life too, and I just couldn’t do that to another parent. We were both sufferin’ and beggin’ for a miracle, and I knew prayin’ for his death wouldn’t affect your ability to survive. So I asked God to save both of you because your families need y’all no matter what.”

By this point, I’m full-on snot-crying and shaking.

She holds me tighter, her tears mixing with mine. “Your daddy is strong and he’s gonna get through this. It’s where you got it from. All your strength and resilience.”

“You’re strong too, Mama. Look how much you’ve been through. You’re the strongest person I know.”

And she is.

Taking care of Daddy and me, having no time to take care of herself, and still working in between so we could keep a roof over our heads. She never gets a day off. Even years later, she’s always taking care of us at home or her patients at the hospital.

“Mrs. Fanning?”

Our heads pop up and a nurse and doctor stand in front of us.

We both stand. “Yeah? Is he okay?”

“He has a concussion and a head wound, but there’s no cerebral edema, so that’s positive. He didn’t break any ribs or any other bones, which is impressive considering how fast he went down,” the doctor explains.

My palm clenches my chest at the relief I feel.

“Oh, thank goodness,” my mom says, squeezing my hand. “Can we see him?”

“We have him on some meds to keep him comfortable and he’ll stay overnight for observation, but if all goes well, y’all can take him home tomorrow afternoon.”

Mom nods at the doctor. “Thank you. I appreciate you takin’ good care of him.”

“Of course. As soon as he’s transported to a patient room, you can go up there.”

“Might take an hour or so to get the paperwork through and find a room, but I’ll page you or find you in the waitin’ room,” the nurse adds. By the looks of it, they know each other.

“Thanks, Paige. We’ll sit out there and wait for my other daughter, too.”

I can’t help the tears of relief that fall down my cheeks. I hate that he’s alone right now, but hopefully pain free and comfortable for once.

“C’mon, sweetie. We should call Delilah and give her the news.”

She texted earlier and said it’d be a couple more hours before she could leave since there wasn’t another manager available to cover her shift.

Wiping my face, we walk out the ER doors, and I’m startled when I hear Noah calling my name. But then I see her parents and all of her siblings, except Wilder.

Noah rushes toward me and Waylon gets to his feet, which is weird because he was just at the café a couple hours ago. So whatever they’re doing here had to have just happened.

“What’s wrong?” Noah asks.

Her gaze moves over my face in concern and then down to my bandaged hand.

“It’s my dad,” I tell her. “He fell.”

“Oh my goodness, is he okay?”

“He has a concussion and is banged up a bit, but overall, he’ll be okay. They’re keepin’ him overnight, so we’re just waitin’ for ’em to move him to a room.”

“That’s a relief. I’m glad it ain’t too bad.”

“Wait, what’re y’all doin’ here?” I ask.

“Waylon found Wilder unconscious in the barn. We’re still waitin’ on answers.” Her voice is strained like she’s trying to hold back tears.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

She smiles weakly. “Thanks.”

“Harlow, I’m gonna call Delilah outside. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Mama. I’ll wait here.”

“Come sit by us.” Noah leads me over to the rest of the family, and it feels awkward with Wilder’s condition up in the air.

“What happened to your dad?” Waylon asks, taking me by surprise. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve heard his voice in the past four years.

I explain everything, from the bathroom door being blocked to why my hand is bandaged and how he fell and smacked his head on the countertop.

“Thank goodness he’s okay,” Waylon says.

“Yeah, I’m lucky I got home when I did. If my date hadn’t stood me up, who knows if it would’ve made things worse finding him later.”

Waylon flinches slightly, and I don’t know if it’s because of the word date or that I got stood up. But either way, he reveals a kind and sympathetic expression.

“You found Waylon in the barn unconscious?” I prompt. “Did he wake up at all?”

“No, I carried him into my truck and sped to the hospital. I usually stay for lunch, but today I didn’t, and now I feel guilty as hell. If I’d been there, I woulda found him sooner.” He shrugs, and I can tell he’s fighting with his emotions.

“You can’t think about the what-ifs. It’ll choke you to death, trust me.”

The guilt I feel for trying to go up against a guy twice my size instead of letting him steal our belongings weighs heavy in my chest because of what it put my parents and sister through. The constant worrying, staying with me in the hospital for weeks at a time, and driving me to physical therapy for a year. That type of guilt doesn’t go away after recovery.

“I know, but I can’t help it,” he admits.

I’ve heard about Wilder’s past, all secondhand from Delilah, but I have a feeling it’s much deeper than what I’ve been told.

“Hollis?” The same doctor who spoke to my mom and me enters the waiting room and calls out for the family.

Garrett and Dena stand, as do the rest of the family, but I continue sitting to respect their privacy.

Realizing I should respond to Mystery Guy’s text now that I’m not so heated about him blowing me off, I grab my phone and click on his message.

Harlow: Sorry for not replying right away. I ended up having a family emergency and had to call an ambulance for my dad. He’s gonna be okay, thankfully. Hope your work thing got handled. If you want to reschedule, it might be a while before I can, but I’d still like to meet up whenever you’re free.

I’m probably being too nice and forgiving, but after what happened with my dad, I know I’d miss talking to him after spending the past month getting to know each other.

As the doctor speaks to the family, Waylon grabs his phone from his back pocket, looks at it, and then glances at me over his shoulder before putting it back.

“Is everything okay?” Mom grabs my attention with her whispered words, and I turn toward her, keeping my voice down.

“I dunno. He just started talkin’ to ’em.”

“Delilah checked on the dogs and now she’s on her way.”

“Okay, good.”

“She’s very upset.”

“I know,” I say, frowning.

Her texts were frantic with tons of questions I didn’t have answers to.

After Dad’s accident, she took on a lot of the responsibility as the oldest child. It was months before Dad got a power chair, so his only form of mobility was his walker or wheelchair. He was weak and spent months in agony, so it was hard for him to hop.

Everything got worse after my incident because Mom was torn between being at home for Dad—who was still recovering from multiple surgeries—and being at the hospital for me—who broke multiple bones. Delilah took on a lot of the burden, making sure someone was always with Dad or me.

When Mom told her it was okay for her to finally move out two years ago, she felt guilty for leaving us. But she didn’t get to live a normal life for so long or focus on her own needs, so our parents nearly pushed her out. It was time she took care of herself.

Trick-riding was all she had to look forward to, and honestly, I think it saved her.

When a text message pops up, I smile at seeing his contact name.

But then it quickly fades.

Mystery Guy: I’m not sure rescheduling is a good idea. I’m sorry.