57. The Lynchpin This Hinges On
THE LYNCHPIN THIS HINGES ON
brAXTON
The next day, I drop Emberleigh off at the hospital and mention I need to run an errand, but want to take Colt along.
Emberleigh would be pissed if she knew, but this is something I need to do for me. And I want Colt there for two reasons. One is that he will require me to keep my cool. The second is he is pivotal in this scenario.
This will take more time away from my family than I want to give, but I hope it’ll be worth it.
An hour later, when I enter the sterile environment, the clanking rivals the silence. Both are extremes. I sit down at the metal table and talk to Colt as we wait. He grabs at my whiskers and my hair that’s way past due for a cut.
I blow raspberries at his throat and listen to his laugh. He has a tickle spot on the back of his neck that causes him to throw his head back and cackle.
“What’s this?” the gruff voice asks. The man before me is suspicious, stopping just inside the door. He throws his shoulders back, and his face morphs to passive smugness.
“My mom died in March,” I say, apropos of nothing.
He comes to sit at the table across from me. The hard look on his face morphs into a gentler, kinder mask.
“Colt lost both of his grandmothers within six months.” I hold his eyes, letting the weight of what I’m saying land. “My pop is incredible. If he needs to be four grandparents wrapped into one, he could do it. He’s that remarkable.”
He holds my eyes. And I see a glimmer of hope I’ve come to know in his daughter’s.
“I don’t want that.” I turn Colt around to face Wainwright. “What does he call you?”
“I don’t know yet.” A small smile threatens his face. “I called myself Grandad.”
“Colt,” I lean into him, but speak loud enough that Wainwright can hear. “Want to go see Grandad?”
The gasp that I hear isn’t gentle. It’s a choke of a sob wanting to threaten… one warring with hope.
“Are you being cruel?” he asks, not understanding.
I move around the metal table and place Colt on his lap, taking the biggest gamble of my life, and return to my seat.
“Wainwright, we’ve all had too much loss. I don’t want to deal Colt another one. You need to make it right with Emberleigh. She’s the lynchpin this hinges on. I told you that, the day before yesterday.”
“I can do that,” he says to me but stares at Colt, wonder in his eyes, as Colt fidgets and coos.
“I mean it, Wainwright. You need to fix this. This is your second chance. It’s your only chance. If I press charges for yesterday, it’s done.” I turn my cheek, still swollen, to him and he stills.
“Gotta tell you, I don’t want that. Not for you. Not for Colt. But most of all, I don’t want any of this for Emberleigh. She’s strong. Hell, she’s got a will of steel. But for her to lose Em, her mother, and you within four months? I won’t do that to her.”
He nods.
“But make no mistake, I’ll protect my family with my life. I’ll take down anyone who threatens that. That includes you.”
“Braxton? May I call you Braxton?”
I nod.
“I’ll make it right with Emberleigh and with you. I’m not a man who grovels. But I am a man of my word. And I’ll make it happen.”
“Wainwright, you make it right with Emberleigh and you will have made it right with me.”
“Thank you.”
I nod.
“For this. And for saving my Em.”
He doesn’t need to say more. I know he’s pissed. I know I wreaked havoc on his life more than once, but I’m trying like hell for my boy.
“Colt,” he speaks to my son. “Remember me? It’s Grandad. You’ve grown so much. I’ve missed you.” A lone tear rolls down his cheek. When he meets my gaze, he adds, “You’re a better man than I gave you credit for. Colt is lucky. So is Em.”
I accept his praise but don’t comment. I’m the lucky one. I’ll never go a day in my life without knowing that. Deep in my bones, deep in my soul. I’m the luckiest man alive.
Colt and I walk out of the county jail and my luck continues. It’s raining.
Finally.
It’s raining.
Days blur into weeks.
Pop comes home, grumbling and annoyed at his doctor-imposed restrictions.
It’s nothing like his exasperation at being the face of the ranch to the media. For the most part, he doesn’t give a rip what the public thinks. His family was in jeopardy and his regrets of that day are more about what he wasn’t able to do than what he did.
A lesser part of him is pissed that his injury is being exploited for marketing purposes. Appearing vulnerable and victimized isn’t how he thinks of himself and to share that version far and wide may be good for the image of the ranch after the events of that day, but digs at his ego.
We slug through the public relations nightmare that a sniper, a kidnapper, three dead bodies, and one gunshot wound victim brought to our doorstep, all the while helping Pop rehab his injury.
He’s as eager a patient as he is a media darling, which is to say he is ornery and wants neither.