A Cowboy's Honor. Lois Richer
“I have thousands,” she admitted.
“Start wherever you like.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened when you woke up in hospital?”
Dallas never thought about that day if he could help it. But Gracie had asked a question. At the very least he owed her whatever explanation he could offer.
“Apparently I suffered some kind of head trauma. My body had pretty much healed by the time I woke up. I knew how to read and write, I could answer normal questions.” He grimaced. “It took a little longer to accept that I’d lost a huge amount of time.”
“And that no one had come looking for you?” she prodded softly.
If only she knew how that hurt.
“At first I fussed about it. And a lot of other things. But one day, before I was released, I met a woman. She’d just lost her husband and she was going to the chapel. She knew about me—knew I’d been in the coma. Probably everyone in the hospital did.” He’d hated being medicine’s newest case study. “Anyway, she invited me to pray with her.”
An expression Dallas couldn’t interpret flitted across Gracie’s pretty face. Then she pulled her mask back into place.
“Go on.”
“I went with her. There wasn’t a lot to do in the hospital. I was well, except for my memory. I was sick of the never-ending tests and I was bored.”
“I guess that’s as good a reason as any to go to church.”
Dallas laughed at her comment.
“It’s not a very good reason at all, Gracie. But that’s why I went. Only it wasn’t a church. It was a chapel. A quiet sanctuary amidst all the suffering.”
Lilies. He remembered Easter lilies. As soon as he’d pushed the solid oak door open their aromatic blooms had gorged his senses.
“I sat with her and I felt this peace, solemnity, if you want. After a while I noticed a verse written in some kind of calligraphy across one of the lit windows. It was from Romans and the last part of it said, ‘…and we confidently and joyfully look forward to becoming all that God has had in mind for us to be.’”
“I see.” Gracie studied him the way a nurse observes a psychiatric patient.
“I know it’s hard to understand, but I sensed a kind of reassurance that no matter what, God would take care of me. I still knew Him and He knew me.”
That moment would stay with him for the rest of his life, but Dallas couldn’t expect someone who hadn’t lived through those horrible, empty black spaces to understand.
“And?”
“And He did. The woman came back and asked the hospital to let me work with her at an animal shelter. There was a whole lot of discussion, but finally some government agency worked out temporary identification and a place for me to stay. I earned a little bit of money. When the dreams started getting clearer, I told them I had to go. I came to Dallas on the bus. The rest you know.”
“So the dreams didn’t come till after?”
Dallas shook his head, struggling to make her understand. “From the day I woke up I began to see things, hear things. When I fell asleep they got clearer. Some I’ve managed to figure out. Some drive me crazy.” He paused, then admitted, “The worst is Mini Belle. As far as I can tell, it’s either a cheese or a car.”
Gracie doubled over in laughter.
Dallas stared at the transformation. His wife was gorgeous. Her whole face glowed. He could not look away.
But when the laughter continued too long, he frowned. “Mind sharing the joke?”
“Mini Belle isn’t a car or a ch-cheese,” Gracie sputtered.
“What is it then?” He felt stupid, awkward, out of place. He hated not getting the joke, or wondering if he was the butt of it.
“Mini Belle is a horse.” Grace sniffed, dabbed at her eyes. Seeing his disbelief, she nodded. “A miniature horse that was particularly fond of you. You once told me she greeted you by pressing her left front hoof on the toe of your boot until you gave her a carrot.”
He listened as she explained about his work with the miniature horse association in Arizona, how he’d studied the friendliness of the small horses.
“What other words have been bothering you? Maybe I can help?”
He decided to risk it.
“Fala-bella? I’m not sure I have the pronunciation quite…” Dallas stopped. He could tell from her face that she recognized the word.
“Falabella. It’s a very rare breed of miniature horse. Originally they were found only on the Falabella Farms in Argentina. I think now there are about nine hundred worldwide. In fact, we have one here at the ranch,” Gracie told him. “It was a gift from a South American group for Elizabeth’s help with some Amazonian issue.”
“Oh.” So it was work he’d been thinking about all these months. Hope deflated. He’d prayed for some clue that would unravel the past, something to link him with Gracie and Misty. This was not it.
“What else?” she asked quietly.
“Porter. I keep hearing the word porter.”
“Ray Porter was your boss. He’s retired now.”
Dallas wanted something more personal, something that would define who and what he’d been, what he’d done with his life, what meant the most to him. He told her more, but every time he repeated a word or described a dream, Gracie related it to work. Finally he chose the one that bothered him most. “Regret.”
“You mean you have regrets?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s like a title I see on the wall of my mind. Regret.”
“Could be anything.” Gracie shrugged. “You probably regretted having to leave home that last day. We’d only been married a week, but you had a meeting in Washington State, and then somewhere near Santa Fe, I think. You said you couldn’t miss them. Maybe regret was the last thing you felt.”
“When I see ‘regret’ I don’t feel emotion,” he explained, searching to understand why that word seemed so important. “It’s more like a tangible thing.”
“I don’t know how to help you.” Gracie frowned. “I suppose we could phone Ray and ask him if the word has any significance. But I’m not sure he would know more than that. You had almost finished your contract with them. You worked freelance.”
Dallas felt certain that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. But Elizabeth appeared at that moment.
“You must stay at the ranch as long as you like, Dallas.” The woman’s warm smile chased away the anxiety clawing his insides. “I don’t know what your accommodation arrangements are, but you’re welcome to stay in what I call the bunkhouse with some of our other employees. And if you need a job, we could certainly use you. How are you with horses?”
“He’s an expert,” Gracie said, before Dallas could admit he didn’t know.
Between the two ladies they had his future nailed down in two minutes. It was like being trapped between whirlwinds, but Dallas didn’t mind. He felt relief that he could stay, get to know his wife and daughter. Somehow God would reveal the next step.
“I’ll ask our sheriff to come over a little later. He’s a friend of mine and I’m sure he’ll help us figure out a way to locate your family.” Elizabeth surveyed his shabby clothes. “Camp staff usually wear jeans and camp shirts, which we provide. You can pick some up tomorrow morning, or Gracie can show you this evening. She’ll know where to find some boots, as well.”
Though he