Chapter 5

Sofia finished checking the vital signs. Blood pressure a bit high, pulse accelerated. But the fever was the biggest issue. She prepared a syringe with paracetamol.

"Callahan, I'm going to administer paracetamol through your IV," she informed him as she picked up the syringe with the medication. She waited for him to agree; even though he was grumpy, he nodded, because there was nothing else he could do. Everything was already fucked anyway.

"It's done," she said as soon as she finished administering the paracetamol into his IV, tossing the syringe into the sharps container. "Try to sleep; your body needs to recover. And…" she hesitated but continued. "The ranch will wait; Miguel's there. Focus on healing."

He didn't respond. He stared fixedly at the wall, his hard profile illuminated by the cold ICU light. But Sofia saw it—she saw the tremor in his chin that he tried to contain. She saw the heavy eyelid that wasn't just from physical exhaustion, but from the immense load he carried. His anger, his arrogance… it was armor. And the armor had cracked, revealing the scared and overburdened guy inside.

That sight, more than any toned chest or involuntary erection, was what stirred Sofia.

"I'll come back later to check the fever," she said, her voice softer than intended. She grabbed the clipboard and turned to leave.

"Nurse."

His voice made her stop at the door. He hadn't turned around. He was still looking at the wall.

"Thanks. For the calf. And… for not making a joke. About the… other thing."

Sofia stood still for a second. The "thanks" sounded strange coming from that mouth, forced but genuine.

"I didn't even notice, Mr. Callahan. Work is work." A blatant lie. She had noticed the hell out of it. "Rest."

She left, closing the door behind her. Only then did she release the breath she didn't know she was holding. Her own heart was pounding hard. What was that? The embarrassment, the anger, his vulnerability, and that damn erection that left them both more lost than a blind man in a shootout.

Inside the ICU, Ethan Callahan finally turned to look at the closed door. The embarrassment still burned his ears, but it was overshadowed by a stranger sensation. The nurse, Sofia—she had seen, really seen everything. The weakness, the desperation with the ranch, the failing brother, and even that ridiculous part of him getting hard as a rock just because she tripped and looked at him—and she hadn't laughed, hadn't made light of it. She had been professional and even kind of gentle at the end.

He looked at the tent that had already deflated under the sheet. And he was pissed at his body's reaction. Pissed at the anger he felt toward it and then toward her. Pissed mainly at that flutter in his stomach when she said she'd come back later—a feeling that wasn't fear, but rather, anticipation?

"Shit," he grumbled into the pillow, burying his face in it. Serenity Creek had turned into a minefield, and he, Ethan Callahan, the toughest cowboy in the county, was stepping on all the bombs. And the nurse with the brown eyes was the biggest one.

Marlene Callahan sat at the kitchen table, a fortress of solid wood scratched by decades. In front of her, there was no food. There were bills. Stacks of yellowed paper, collection notices with red letters screaming "FINAL NOTICE," and a small mountain of corn kernels. She counted them, one by one, with gnarled fingers.

The back door slammed hard against the wall. Ben Callahan stumbled in, the strong smell of cheap whiskey and acidic sweat preceding him. He was pale, his shirt torn at the shoulder, a dark, damp stain on his jeans near the knee—blood or mud, it was hard to tell. His eyes, red and blurry, barely focused on his mother.

"Where the hell have you been?" Marlene's voice was sharp; she knew it was her problem child even without lifting her eyes from the kernels. "The north troughs are empty. The calves are lowing from hunger. And you disappear all day?"

Ben leaned against the sink, trying to steady himself. He squeezed his eyes against the dim light of the hanging bulb.

"Had… things. Things to take care of."

"Things." Marlene finally looked at him. The contempt in her black eyes was palpable. "Smelling like a dumpster and staggering? Those 'things'? Ethan's in the hospital with a broken leg, and you, his brother, blood of the same blood, are here, dragging yourself like a sick dog! Have you taken care of anything besides getting wasted and racking up more debt?"

Ben rested his head on the cold wood of the fridge. Shame and anger battled inside him, but the booze suffocated any stronger feeling.

"Leave me alone, Mom. I'm… I'm tired."

"Tired?" Marlene jumped up, the chair scraping on the floor. She seemed larger than she was, inflamed by fury. "Tired, you? Who's holding this ranch together with nails and teeth while the proud Ethan splatters himself and you sink into the trash? Who's counting every corn kernel to see if we eat tomorrow? Tired is Miguel, who's out there now, in the dark, trying to fix the south well pump with wire and faith! Tired is me, Ben! Tired of carrying dead weight!"

She advanced, forcing him to feel the weight of her disgust.

"Look at yourself! A wreck. The golden boy of the rodeo, who had the world in his hands. What's left? Debt to loan sharks, a dirty name in town, and an empty bottle as your best friend. Your father…"

"Don't talk about Dad!" Ben pushed himself off the sink, his face contorted in a mix of pain and sudden fury. "You have no right to talk about him!"

Marlene didn't back down an inch, her eyes shining with coldness.

"I have the right because I'm here! Because I held things together when he left! Because I didn't run to the bottle or the gambling table when life got tough! Your father, Ben Callahan, died with honor. Did he mess up? He did. But he faced the consequences. Look at you. You're not even fit to face a mirror. You're a shadow. A shame. Ethan, with a broken leg and the ranch crumbling, still has more grit in his pinky finger than you have in your whole body!"