Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

Scared, sad, and more fragile than she would ever admit, she wanted to simultaneously run away and crawl into his lap. Too bad she couldn’t do either.

“He’s going to be okay.” Heath gave her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

She wanted to believe him so badly, but she knew the statistics, knew exactly how many people died of heart disease every year. Please God, don’t let her daddy be one of them. Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready—

“Excuse me.” A skinny nurse with a lot of orange hair piled on her head looked up from behind a computer screen. “Only one person is allowed in here at a time.”

“It’s okay, I’m—”

“I don’t care if you’re Jesus and its Sunday, only one person …” She stood and squinted to get a better look at Heath. Her face broke into a crooked smile. “Oh, you’re Heath Montgomery. My husband is your biggest fan. I didn’t grow up here or I’d have recognized you right off.” She headed toward them, right hand extended. “I’m Jeannie Towns.”

Without missing a beat, Heath dropped his arm and shook her hand. “You’d be married to Bubba Towns?”

Jeannie was filled with all kinds of self-importance at having her husband recognized. “That’s correct.”

“You tell him I said hey.” He tried to drop her hand, but she held on tight, so Heath continued shaking it. “Does he still cook the Wednesday night dinner at First Baptist? That man could fry a mean catfish.”

The two of them descended into catfish stories as Lyric moved closer to her father. Trust Heath to find a way to be here for her e

ven when he wasn’t supposed to be. And though he seemed totally involved in the catfish stories, she could still feel the warmth of his hand against her back. Still feel the weight of his gaze on her as he launched into the story of the biggest fish he’d ever caught. It was strangely comforting, considering she’d started this bizarre day hating him with the power of a thousand burning suns. And now … now she didn’t know what she felt. But she knew it wasn’t hate.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, though, not with her father lying there so still and pale. Stepping to the side of his bed, she touched his hand. Though it was limp, it was still warm and familiar. She ran a finger over the knuckle of his thumb. He’d broken it building her a playhouse when she was seven. Harmony hadn’t wanted any part of it, as it was outside and therefore dirty, but Lyric had loved that playhouse, had loved working on it right alongside him. Hauling tools, nails, and wood while her father did all of the hard work. He’d let her measure and cut and hammer because he’d wanted her to feel important, but after she was supposed to be in bed one night, she’d caught him dismantling and rebuilding the area she’d put together.

“Just making sure it’s sturdy,” he’d said. “The most important people in my life deserve to be safe.”

Tears, warm and plentiful, leaked from the corners of her eyes as she covered his hand with hers. How could she make it safe for him, she wondered, as she looked over all the different machines helping to keep him comfortable. Helping to keep him alive.

The weight of the day finally broke her, and she let out a honking sob that shook her whole body. She’d never been a delicate crier—that was Harmony— but right now, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

With the hem of her shirt, she mopped at her face. All talk of catfish broke off as Heath slid his hand to the small of her back. “Christ, that was a scary sound.”

“It’s a gift.” She swiped at her face again. “I’ll wash it before I return it.” She waggled the hem of the shirt.

“That goes without saying.” He pulled her to his side. “He’s going to be fine. Nurse Jeannie—that’s what she likes to be called—told me that this is pretty routine.” His voice cracked. “He’s going to be fine.”

She glanced up at him. His eyes misted over, and he blinked, trying to hide it. In her outrage of the last twelve years, she’d forgotten that Daddy had become like a father to Heath after his own father had descended into the bottle and never managed to climb out. “I’m sorry, I’ve been selfish. You love him too.”

“Did you know that he was the one who turned me onto football? He said I needed an outlet for all that anger I had when my mother left. On the days that I didn’t stay at your house, he knocked on my front door every morning at five to wake me up. He’d scramble me some eggs and we’d go for a run. That’s what got me through it … he’s what got me through it.” Heath rapidly blinked his eyes again. “When I graduated from high school, he shook my hand and told me that if he’d had a son, he hoped he’d have been just like me.”

“He loves you and is proud of the man you are today.” Her sweet Daddy—always helping others to achieve the best version of themselves.

“Speaking of proud—he was always talking about you. There was never a father prouder of his daughter.” Heath smiled despite the lone tear running slowly down his cheek. “You are his favorite person in the world.”

While it was good to hear, she knew the truth. Daddy had to love her because her mother never had. He’d never wanted her to feel like less than Harmony. “Thanks.”

“So …” Heath pursed his lips. “What should we do now? On TV they hold the sick person’s hand and make some mushy, tearful bargain with God.” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “God, if you spare him, I’ll devote my life to curing cancer or I’ll donate all of my belongings to the poor and take a vow of chastity.” He opened his eyes, his hands dropped to his sides, and he shrugged. “Since he’s going to be fine, the chastity seems like overkill.”

“Let’s back-burner the bargains with God for now.” She scooted a chair closer and sat next to the bed. “How about we just hold his hands and talk to him?”

She covered her father’s hand with both of hers. Heath slid a chair over to the other side of the bed and touched her father’s hand.

“His hand’s kinda sweaty. I thought it would be cold.” Heath wiped his hand on his thigh and then covered her father’s hand with his. “I guess that was the wrong thing to say.”

“What do you think the approved topics of conversation are for a coma victim?” She chewed on her top lip.

“How about prime numbers?” He held up his phone. “I’ve got the list right here in case we need it.” He sat back in his chair. “What do you think? Can he hear us?”

“The popular theory is that coma patients can hear and understand those around them. There is quite a bit of research. I should look it up. I wonder if it’s the sound of the voice or the actual words that a coma patient responds to?” Looking around for her purse, she realized that she’d left it in Cherry Cherry. “Can I borrow your iPhone?”