Page 53 of Down in Flames

"If I came to you every time my heart did something funny, I'd be living in your guest bedroom."

"But you'd be living," Harvey replied mildly. "If I'd known how hard your heart has been working lately, I could have gotten you on meds to prevent the arrhythmia that caused your collapse. Your heart works three times as hard as it should for a man your age. You can't afford to take these kinds of chances.”

West picked cotton pills off his blanket, flattening his expression into something he hoped didn't look as petulant as he felt.

Lying there in Michael’s arms, West had been certain he was dying, and he'd been full of regrets. But whether the meds Dr. Harvey had pumped into his IV were already working, or it was just a placebo effect, he felt better already. Now all he could think was how much he didn't want to go back to being treated like an invalid. Better to die on his feet than live as half a man.

"I hear you," he muttered.

"Do you?"

West raised his head. "Yes," he said forcefully. "Trust me. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Harvey sighed and removed his glasses, tucking them into the front pocket of his coat. He nudged West's foot and sat beside him, informal enough to give his leg a comforting squeeze. "Your folks told me about the rodeos, as if those bruises didn't speak for themselves. It's all the nurses can talk about."

West cringed, and Harvey's expression turned sympathetic.

"No one ever said you couldn't compete, West. But every HLHS patient is unique and needs to be monitored for changes. Plenty of them already have pacemakers at this stage, but I don’t think you’re there yet. I still believe you can lead a normal life. But you need to communicate with me so we can come up with a plan together. I’m not the enemy. You hear me, son?"

West swallowed, feeling almost as ashamed as he had when his mother burst into tears as soon as she walked into his hospital room.

"Yes, sir."

"If you want to ride broncos, you can do it. Lord knows why you'd want to, but it won't damage your heart. Have at it. But working too much, ignoring your health, and skipping medications is another story. You've got to stop pretending you're someone you're not."

Knuckles rapped hard on the door, and West's head jerked around. Michael leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed, and something in his body language told West he'd been listening for a while.

The family had come and gone in shifts through the night, but the one constant at his side was Michael. He'd only left once around dawn to pick up Abby from Susan's house where she'd spent the night.

Despite his unwavering presence, they hadn’t spoken much. West mostly slept, groggy from stress and whatever medications the nurses had slipped into his IV. But when he was clear-headed, Michael had been gentle-voiced and solicitous. He hadn't seemed angry. Not exactly. Just...distant, as if something invisible separated them. West was afraid to test just how solid the wall between them was.

Now Michael was freshly showered, wearing his good button-down and the church jeans that hugged his ass. Those jeans had tormented West every Sunday for years. He’d never looked so handsome, glowing with health and strength.

West’s mouth watered just looking at him, and even though his body was wiped out, he felt a responsive tightening in his groin. He lifted a thigh and shifted, discreetly bunching the blanket in his lap. His skin itched for Michael's hands on him, but one thing surprised him. His heart hadn't skipped a beat when he entered the room.

It had been doing that so often: skipping, quivering, racing, and thumping. All signs that he was head over heels in love. Or so he'd thought. Turned out they were just signs that he needed to visit his cardiologist. He felt like an idiot.

“Hey,” he croaked, reaching out a hand.

Michael didn’t take it. The only thing that moved was his gaze as it slid to Harvey. His expression flickered, and he seemed angry at the doctor for some reason.

“You about finished up here?” he asked coolly.

“For all the good it’s done,” Harvey declared, shaking out his coat flaps as he stood. “We’ve already given him his walking papers, so he just needs some pants. But I want to see him for a recheck in three days.”

Michael didn’t move, forcing the doctor to maneuver around him. His attention was completely focused on West, but there was no pleasure in his expression. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

West was so unnerved that he took his time swinging his legs over the side of the bed and cracking his neck. His battered muscles had locked up after a night on the rock-hard mattress, and he was anxious to get his boots back on and get out of there.

Hospitals put him on edge, even one he’d known since he was a child. He used to have nightmares about the sterile hallways stretching on forever, like something out of The Shining. To his mind, hospitals had meant nothing but lonely rooms with plastic smells and strange, cold hands. When he was very little, he used to bolt upright in bed after a nightmare, screaming bloody murder until every light in the house was on.

That was back before his father had left for the oil rigs, and he'd always been the first to reach him, settling his giant frame down on the mattress and scooping West into his arms, blanket and all. Somehow, he always knew just what to say back then.

West could use a little of that skill now.

“You’re not wearing your hat,” he observed stupidly.

Michael glanced down and ran a hand through his hair, as if he’d forgotten. “Left it in the truck.”