I press my palms into my eye sockets and try to breathe. Even as my chest feels like a vice around my lungs.
A nurse walks past, and I barely even register her. “Sir, there’s a waiting room just?—”
“I’m fine here,” I grunt.
She hesitates. I don’t even look at her. Instead, I pull out my phone and call Colten.
“How is she?” he answers immediately.
“They’re running scans. I don’t know yet.” My voice comes out wrong. “How’s Wyatt?”
“Asleep. Finally. Took a while, but he’s out. He’s safe, Hunter. Jerry’s here too.”
“Okay. Good.”
“How are you?”
I don’t answer. Because the honest answer would break whatever’s left of me. “I’ll call you when I know more,” I say, and hang up.
I sit on that floor for forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of staring at a wall and making deals with a God I’m not sure I believe in. Promising things I have no right to promise.
Let her be okay. Take anything. Take the ranch. Take the money. Take every year I have left. Just let her be okay.
A doctor rounds the corner. I’m on my feet before he’s within ten paces. “Mr. Sterling?”
“How is she?”
He glances at the clipboard. Then at me. And for a second, I can’t breathe.
“Your wife sustained a significant impact to her right temporal region. We’ve run a CT scan. There’s no fracture andno intracranial bleeding, which is what we were most concerned about.”
I let out a breath that empties my entire body.
“However, she does have a concussion. A serious one. The laceration on her temple required eleven stitches. Her wrists have second-degree rope burns that we’ve cleaned and dressed. And she has significant bruising to her ribs and left hip.”
Eleven stitches. Rope burns. Bruised ribs.
My brother did this.
“We need to monitor her overnight. Possibly longer, depending on how the concussion presents over the next twelve to twenty-four hours. Head injuries can be unpredictable. We’ll be checking on her regularly—pupil response, cognition, balance.”
“But she’s going to be okay?”
He nods. “She took a hell of a hit. But she’s going to be okay.”
My knees almost buckle. I put my hand against the wall. “I need a private room for her,” I say. “The best you have. No shared ward. No interruptions. Security on the door. Name your price.”
The doctor blinks. “We do have a private suite on the fourth floor, but it’s typically reserved for?—”
“Name your price.”
He studies me for a beat. “We can sort that later. I’ll make the arrangements,” he says quietly.
“Thank you.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a fold of cash. Press it into his hand. “This is for your time. And your discretion. Nothing about my wife’s admission goes on any system that isn’t locked down. No visitors without my authorization. Nothing.”
He pockets the cash and nods. “You can see her in about twenty minutes. I’ll have someone come and find you.”