Taken by the Cowboy (32 page)

From that day forward,
I saw more beauty in the world than I had ever seen before. I
cherished every moment, found joy in the tiniest pleasures, for I
understood this amazing gift called life.

I gloried in the time
we spent together, knowing how precious and fragile it all was.
Sometimes I would look up at the sky and watch the clouds shift and
roll across the vibrant expanse of blue, and I wanted to weep from
its sheer majesty.

We lived in a beautiful
world, and I felt so fortunate to have Megan at my side. I had
learned that I was stronger than I ever imagined I was, and so was
Megan. She had fought a difficult battle and had become my hero. I
respected and admired her – more than I ever respected or admired
anyone. I was in awe of her.

In addition, friends
and family offered us help and support, and I saw, through the eyes
of my heart, how incredibly lucky we all were to be on the
receiving end of all that generosity and compassion. It was
something wonderful to witness, and I felt truly blessed.

It may seem an odd
thing to say, but I sometimes felt that Megan’s cancer, even though
it was painful, had brought something good. It had taught us so
much about life and love. I had grown – so had she – and I knew
that this change in us was very profound and would affect both our
futures.

Later I would learn how
right I was.

For something both
glorious and mystifying still awaited us.

Chapter Nine

Over the next two
years, I helped Megan through her post-remission therapy and
cherished every precious moment with her, basking in the joy of our
existence.

Michael reacted
differently.

He was overjoyed, of
course, when Megan achieved remission. We celebrated and went to
Disney World for the weekend. But slowly, over time, as the weeks
pressed on and there was still no end to the doctor appointments
and pills and blood work, he began to withdraw.

Every evening when he
came home from work, he poured himself a drink. Though he never
consumed enough to become noticeably intoxicated, it was enough to
change the core of the person he had once been.

He smiled less often
(oh, how I missed his smile) and he left all of Megan’s medical
care to me. He didn’t attend any of her appointments, nor did he
stay informed about her medications at home. I administered all of
them myself.

The Sunday trips to his
sister’s house in Connecticut fell by the wayside as well, along
with my writing.

Not that I cared about
that. Being with Megan was all that mattered to me – but perhaps
that was part of the problem where Michael was concerned.

In the early days of
our marriage, when we were passionately in love, he was the center
of my world. Maybe he couldn’t accept the fact that I had a new
hero now, and there were things in life I revered more than his
success at the firm or our expensive dinners out.

These were things he
didn’t understand.

“They’re just clouds,”
he would say when I wanted to lay on the grass and watch them roll
across the sky. He would frown at me as I shook out the blanket.
“Don’t be so emotional. It’s ridiculous.”

Or maybe that was the
heart of the problem. Maybe he couldn’t handle the complexity of
his own emotions. We had come very close to losing our daughter,
and sometimes it felt like we were still standing on a thin sheet
of ice with a deep crack down its center.

What if it happened
again? What if Megan relapsed? What if we had another child and the
same thing happened? How would we cope?

It had been so
difficult the first time. I couldn’t imagine going through anything
like that again.

I understood his fear.
I felt it, too, but it didn’t keep me from loving Megan or spending
time with her. It only intensified our bond.

I wanted to be closer
to Michael, but he was always too tired, not in the mood, or too
busy.

Once, I suggested that
we try therapy together – surely a child with cancer was enough to
warrant a few sessions with a professional – but he was worried
that someone at the firm might find out, and he was determined to
stay strong. He was a partner now and couldn’t afford to be
weak.

His behavior saddened
and angered me, and I regret to say that this wedge in our
relationship only grew deeper over time. I felt more and more
disconnected from the love we once shared.

Consequently, when the
next bomb hit, our foundations were unsteady. As a couple, we were
damaged and vulnerable, and it all went downhill from there.

Chapter Ten

On a snowy late
November afternoon in 2005, I was putting away the dishes, and
Megan screamed in the bathroom. As soon as I heard the terror in
her voice, I dropped a plate on the floor. It shattered into a
hundred pieces on the ceramic tiles, and my heart dropped to my
stomach.

Please, let it be a
spider, I thought as I ran to her.

When I pushed the door
open, I found her sitting on the floor with blood pouring out of
her nose. She was slumped over, trying to catch it in her
hands.

Quickly I grabbed a
towel, held it under her nose and helped her up. “It’s all right,
honey. Mommy’s here now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

But I knew it was not
that simple. She was not fine. She’d been fatigued for the past
week and had lost her appetite.

I don’t know how I
managed to think clearly as I helped her out to the front hall. All
I wanted to do was cry or yell at someone, but I could do none of
those things because I had to focus on picking up my purse, locking
the door behind me, buckling her into the car, and driving to the
hospital.

* * *

After two years in
remission with normal blood counts and an excellent prognosis,
Megan suffered a relapse in her central nervous system.

The doctor explained
that this type of relapse occurred in less than ten percent of
childhood leukemia patients, and that Megan would require frequent
spinal taps to inject chemotherapy drugs directly into her
cerebrospinal fluid.

I tried to call Michael
on his cell phone, but he wasn’t answering and the receptionist
couldn’t tell me where he was.

I was enraged. I
remember thinking, as I stood at the nurses’ station and slammed
the receiver down, that I wanted to divorce him. Why wasn’t he here
with me? Why did I have to shoulder all of this alone? Did he not
care? Didn’t he love his daughter? Didn’t he love
me
?

I sat down on a bench
in the hospital corridor and struggled to calm myself before I
returned to Megan’s bedside, but my heart was throbbing in my chest
and I was afraid I might, at any second, start screaming like a
lunatic.

Why was this happening?
Recently, I had begun to feel some security that Megan was going to
be all right and live a long, happy life. She would go to high
school, college, get married and have children of her own. I was
certain that one day, all of this would be a distant memory,
because we had fought hard and beaten it.

But the cancer was
back. The treatments had not worked. The leukemia cells were
infecting her blood again.

I stood up and ran to
the nearest bathroom, where I heaved up the entire contents of my
stomach.

* * *

Sometime after eleven
that night, Michael arrived at the hospital. I had no idea where
he’d been all day or why he hadn’t answered his phone. I didn’t
ask. All I did was explain Megan’s diagnosis in a calm and cool
manner, because by that time, I had reached a state of numbness.
Megan was sleeping and I couldn’t seem to feel anything. I couldn’t
cry, couldn’t yell. I couldn’t even step into Michael’s arms to let
him hold me.

I suppose I had been
enduring this alone for such a long time that I didn’t need him
anymore. I didn’t need anyone – except for Megan, and the doctors
and nurses who could keep her alive.

When Michael absorbed
what I told him about the nosebleed and the fatigue over the past
week, and the spinal taps and radiation she would require, he
pushed me aside, marched up to the nurses’ station, and smacked his
palm down upon the countertop.

A nurse was seated in
front of a computer, talking to someone on the phone. “I’ll get
right back to you,” she said, then set the receiver down and looked
up at him. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

“Where the hell is Dr.
Jenkins?” Michael asked. “Get her out here.
Now
. She has a
lot to answer for.”

I rushed forward and
grabbed hold of his arm. “It’s not her fault, Michael. She’s doing
everything she can for Megan.”

He roughly shook me
away. “Everything? What kind of hospital is this? Why didn’t anyone
see this coming?”

“Keep your voice down,”
I said. “You’ll wake Megan. She’ll hear you.”

A baby started to cry
somewhere down the hall.

“I don’t care if she
hears me! She needs to know that at least
someone
is
looking out for her.”

My stomach muscles
clenched tight. I could feel my blood rushing to my head, pounding
in my ears.

“Someone?” I replied.
“Like who?
You
? Pardon me for saying so, Michael, but
you’ve done nothing for Megan over the past two years. I’ve taken
care of her every minute of every day, while you find other more
important things to do. So don’t you
dare
pretend to be
her savior tonight. I won’t let you make enemies out of the very
people who are trying to save her.”

I gestured toward the
nurse – though I didn’t even know her name – and she slowly stood
up.

She was a tall,
broad-shouldered black woman with plastic-rimmed glasses and a
fierce-looking gaze. “Is there going to be a problem here, sir?”
she asked. “Do I need to call security?”

Briefly he considered
it, then turned his back on her and faced me. A muscle twitched at
his jaw as he spoke. “I told you we should’ve gotten a second
opinion.”

Michael reached into
his breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and tossed it onto
the counter. He pointed a threatening finger at the nurse. “See
that? Yeah. You’re going to hear from me.”

He walked out and left
me standing there with my heart racing, perspiration beading upon
my forehead.

Not because I was
afraid, but because it had taken every ounce of self-control I
possessed not to punch Michael in the face.

I took a few deep
breaths to calm myself.

“Was that your ex?” the
nurse asked.

I glanced at her
nametag. “No… Jean. We’re still married.”

Jean removed her
glasses, pulled a tissue from the box on the counter, and proceeded
to clean her lenses while she strolled out from behind the
counter.

She approached me, slid
her glasses back on, then laid a hand on my shoulder. “You look
like you could use a Popsicle.”

Not knowing what else
to say, I simply nodded and followed her into the lunchroom.

-End of Excerpt-

Julianne MacLean ::
Home

A Highland Short
Story

By Julianne MacLean

Excerpt - Copyright
2011 Julianne MacLean

All rights reserved

November 13, 1715

On the field of
Sherrifmuir, six miles northeast of Stirling Castle

At the sound of the
bagpipes and the roaring command of his chief, Alex MacLean drew
his sword and broke into a run, charging up the north face of the
hill.

A wild frenzy of
bloodlust exploded in his veins and fuelled his body with savage
strength and determination, as he and his fellow Jacobite clansmen
advanced upon Argyll’s left flank. Their lines collided in a heavy
clash of bodies and weaponry, and suddenly he was thrashing about
in a red sea of chaos. Men shouted and lunged, shot each other at
close range, they severed limbs and hacked each other to pieces.
Blood splattered onto his face as he spun around and swung his
sword at one soldier, then another. Adrenaline fired his instincts.
The fury was blinding. His muscles strained with every controlled
thrust and strike.

Keenly aware of all
that was happening around him, he raised his targe to encumber the
piercing point of a bayonet. Dropping to one knee, he dirked the
offending redcoat in the belly.

Eventually, in the
distance, beyond the delirium of combat, the Government Dragoons
began to fall back, retreating through their own infantry. The fury
was too much for them. Alex raised his sword.

“
Charge
!” he
shouted, in a deep thunderous brogue. “
For the Scottish
Crown
!”

He and his fellow
clansmen cried out in triumphant resolve and rushed headlong at the
breaking enemy ranks, while the Jacobite cavalry thundered past,
galloping hard to pursue the Hanoverians into the steep-sided Glen
of Pendreich.

Moments flashed by like
brilliant bursts of lightning. The battle was nearly won. The
redcoats were fleeing….

Before long, Alex
slowed to a jog and looked about to get a better sense of his
bearings. He and dozens of other clansmen were now spread out
across the glen with precious space between them and clean air to
breathe.

It was over. Argyll’s
opposing left flank was crushed. They were retreating to
Dunblane.

Stabbing the point of
his weapon into the frosty ground, Alex dropped to his knees in
exhaustion and rested his forehead on the hilt. He’d fought hard,
and with honor. His father would be proud.

Just then, a
fresh-looking young redcoat leapt out from behind a granite boulder
and charged at him. “
Ahh
!”