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After he’d thanked the doctor and the nurse, Robert walked out of the room a damn sight more hopeful than when he’d entered it.
Toby’s hand was right there on his neck, and Robert gave himself up to the touch.
“Let’s go home.”
Butch helped Matt clear away the dishes and glasses, while Walt and Zeeb carried the food into the kitchen. Paul had taken the guests back to the bunkhouse, and Teague was outside on his phone.
Butch prayed it was good news.
He stared at the mass of untouched food. “I guess no one was hungry.”
“It’s all going into the refrigerator—and the freezer,” Matt told him. “And once we know she’s okay, we’ll have that party.”
Butch loved his optimism. “From your mouth to God’s ears, dude.”
Teague came into the kitchen. “Good news. Diana’s come round. They’re on their way back from the hospital. Toby said they’re almost home.”
Butch had to fight back the tears of relief. “Thank the Lord. What do the docs say?”
Teague reeled off all the medical jargon, but the two things Butch homed in on were that there was no brain damage, and she’d be home by the end of the week.
It had been a hell of a long time since Butch had gotten an answer to prayer.
“They’ll be hungry,” Matt announced. “They haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’ll rustle something up for them.” He smiled at Walt and Zeeb. “Thanks for your help, guys.” He gestured to the food. “Grab a bite if you’re hungry. God knows there’s plenty.”
Zeeb grabbed a couple of chunks of bread, and helped himself to a bowl of potato salad. “This’ll do just fine.” His eyes met Butch’s. “Might even be able to eat it now.” He headed out of the door.
Walt hesitated for a second, then followed suit. “You coming?” he asked Butch as he added a couple of spoonfuls to a bowl.
“I’m gonna wait till I’ve seen the boss.”
Walt nodded, then walked out of the kitchen. Matt was putting two plates of food together, and Teague sat at the kitchen table, a bottle of beer in one hand.
“Christ Almighty, what a day.” He glanced at Butch. “You hanging in there?”
He expelled a breath. “Just thankful she’s gonna be okay.” He paused. “And even more thankful to be wrong.”
Teague shivered. “I know. It could’ve been much, much worse.” He smiled. “You did good today. You kept your head.”
Butch returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Mr. Foreman, sir.”
“I mean it.” He inclined his head toward the porch. “Wanna join me outside?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Butch grabbed one of the beer bottles from the pail standing by the fridge, and followed Teague. In the night sky, more and more stars became visible, and the air was cooler. They sat in the chairs, and Butch stared out at the ranch below, the barns lit up, their white paint glowing in the lights.
“You calmed down yet?”
Butch frowned. “What?”
“I’m not talking about today—I’m referring to that conversation we had on Friday night. You remember that, right? Where you lost it because you found out Sol likes to wear leather an’ shit.”
He smirked. “‘Leather an’ shit’?” Teague arched his eyebrows, and Butch sighed. “Yeah, I’ve calmed down, thanks to you.” He raised his bottle to Teague. “You talk a lot of sense. I’m still not sure what I’m gonna say to him when he arrives.”
“Then don’t wait till then. He gave you his number—use it.”
Butch blinked. “Seriously?”
“Why not? You’d clear the air before he gets here.”
