“You’re hovering.” I glare at my mom, giving her the look that makes most men cower, but she’s completely unaffected.

“I’m not hovering. You’re my baby boy, and I just want to make sure you don’t need anything. Are you comfortable?” Mom flits around my room, arranging and rearranging the various flowers and balloons that have trickled in over the last few days.

“Yes, I’m comfortable. I’m also full and tired, thanks to you.”

“Better get used to it, bro,” Rhett says, dropping onto a chair. He props an ankle on his knee and reclines. “When I was in the hospital, she did the same thing. Didn’t stop until I got released, and then she still sent me daily texts to make sure I was feeling okay.”

Mom scoffs and kisses my forehead. “One of these days, when you have your own children, you’ll understand.”

“Sorry, Ma. I imagine you’ll have lots of grandchildren someday, but they probably won’t come from me,” I scoff.

“You just wait. You’ll change your tune when you decide to go after your girl,” she says, picking up her purse.

“My girl? There is no girl, Mom.”

She looks at me as though she’s privy to some huge secret I know nothing about. I glance to Rhett for help, but he just shrugs.

“There’s a girl, but your head and your heart have to be ready for her, and when they are, you’ll see her,” she says.

“You mean I’ll find her.”

“No, you’ll see her. You’re obviously not there yet, and when you are, you’ll realize you don’t have to look far because she’s been right in front of you this whole time.” With a final wave, Mom bustles out of the room.

“Did any of that make sense to you?”

Rhett shakes his head. “Not a word.”

“Good. I thought maybe the pain meds screwed with my head.”

“Speaking of pain meds, how are you feeling?” Rhett asks, standing up. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he moves closer to my bed, looking at one of the bags hanging from the IV pole.

“I feel good. The headaches are gone, and my vision is back to normal. Doc says it was a concussion.”

Rhett laughs, but it lacks any sort of humor. “Yeah, I know a little something about that. When are you breaking out of here?”

At the end of last summer, Rhett was flung off a bull and wound up in the hospital. A concussion and strained rotator cuff brought him back home to Heaven. He still has his house in Houston, but after reconnecting with Monroe, he’s home a lot more.

“I’m hoping tomorrow. How’s Claire doing?”

Rhett nods. “She’s great. Getting released as we speak.”

Thank God. I was worried about her. She was the first thing I thought about when I came to in the hospital, and she’s been on my mind ever since.

“Good. That’s good.”

“Is there anything you need? You’re more than welcome to stay with Mo and me for a few days,” Rhett offers.

“Now you sound like Mom.”

He raises his hands. “It’s just an offer.”

“Which I appreciate. But I’m good. Doc says I’ll need to take a week off work, and then I’ll be back on the truck.”

“That’s good. Just don’t push yourself. You need time to heal.”

“Really? You want to lecture me on not pushing myself? Wasn’t it you who woke up after three days in a coma asking when you could get back on the bull?”

“Touché.” He laughs. “I guess I better get going. Can’t leave Dad on the ranch for too long by himself.”

Damn it. I forgot about the ranch. Dad is probably up to his eyeballs in work, and I imagine he’s running himself into the ground.

“Tell Dad I’ll be by as soon as they let me out.”

“No worries, bro. The ranch is good. Coop and I have been keeping Dad in line and making sure the work is done. You take care of you.”

“Good. Now get out of here and let me sleep.” With my hands tucked behind my head, I relax against the pillows. “Turn off the light and shut the door on your way out.”

Just to piss me off, he opens the blinds, bathing the room in bright rays of sunshine before he leaves.

“Fucker,” I grumble, closing my eyes.

It’s been nonstop since I was admitted. Not only has my family been in and out, but my crew has stopped by to check on me several times as well. I’m grateful that everyone cares, but it’s hard enough to get rest in a hospital the way it is—too much monitoring and checking.

Taking a deep breath, I allow my brain to shut down—something I’ve taught myself to do over the years to keep from thinking about every fire, wreck, and victim I’ve ever encountered—not to mention guilt over my own shortcomings. I picture a black wall, focusing on it until my arms and legs become heavy, sleep creeping in around me, and then there’s a soft knock on the door.

Jesus Christ.

I stare at the door, and when it doesn’t open, I say screw it and close my eyes again. Everyone else simply walks in. If this person is dumb enough to knock and wait for me to answer, they’re going to be standing there a while.

I conjure up the black wall again, ignoring another faint knock, and count backward from one hundred.

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight.

Ninety-seven.