Code Triage by Candace Calvert

his cell number, below Leigh’s. She’d forgotten to take it off. Or maybe his responsibility as an emergency contact would end when his marriage did.
    “It’s still current?” Patrice asked.
    “Yes,” he answered, deciding against inflicting too much information on this kind woman.
    “Good,” she said. “I hope we don’t need to call you. Leigh’s a careful rider. And this young man—” she peered over the gate at the big horse—“is a healthy sort. Even if his appetite’s been a bit quirky lately. We’ll be keeping an eye on Frisco. Don’t worry.”
    He had no intention of telling her that he wouldn’t worry about this beast. Ever.
    “Well, it’s good to meet you, Nick. I look forward to seeing more of you. But now it’s time for Maria to have a bath.” She beckoned to the little girl with the dark braids. “Something tells me we’re going to have some donkey hair to brush off her clothes first; won’t be the first time in this family. And Lord knows, not by a long shot the worst thing we’ve dealt with. But we hang in there. We always do.”
    Nick’s throat tightened without warning. “I’m sure you do.”
    Patrice took a few steps and gestured to the child again.
    The little girl trotted up the walkway, stopping beside Nick. She reached into the sack, took out several small carrots, and handed them to him. Her lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile.
    “Thank you, Maria,” he whispered as she trotted off.
    He stared from the carrots to the warning sign on the stall gate, then to the huge horse with his head down, facing the wall. He glanced up and down the empty walkway. “Look,” he said, taking a step toward the stall, “you and I both know that I’m not your ‘dad.’ And in a few days I won’t even be an emergency contact. So here, knock yourself out, Frisco.” Nick dropped the carrots over the gate and stepped a safe distance away. He jumped when his cell phone buzzed on his belt.
    “Stathos,” he said, feeling like the fool he was.
    “Nicky? This is Antoinette. I need your help, darling.”
    He talked with her long enough to understand that Harry had wandered away from the house while she was taking a shower. He promised to be there in less than ten minutes and disconnected, watching as Frisco put his head down and moved toward the carrots.
    The big horse sniffed at them for moment, then stretched his neck over the gate to gaze down the walkway. He gave a deep, insistent whinny.
    There was a small, answering bray from two gates down.
    +++
    Leigh leaned across the McNealys’ quilt-covered bed to adjust the oxygen prongs, aware that Nick was watching her. She shouldn’t be surprised that Antoinette would call him. “You were going to trim the privet hedge. Weren’t you, Harry?”
    “Of . . . course,” her neighbor replied, his voice breathless and reedy but emphatic. There was a lipstick print on his forehead. “A man can’t . . . expect his bride . . . to do that sort of work.” Harry’s watery eyes shifted to gaze at Nick. He waggled a finger in the air. “Right, son?”
    “That’s right, sir,” Nick said quickly. “And I agree that the hedge needs pruning. Our . . .” He hesitated. “Our side is overgrown too. I’ll get it done. Don’t you worry.”
    “Thank you.” Harry sighed and swept a tremulous hand over his snowy hair. “A little . . . at a time. That’s how you do it . . . keep at it. Keep . . .” He yawned, and his lids fluttered, then closed. Leigh waited for a few moments before grasping his slender wrist very gently, checking his pulse. Much stronger now, and the rate had settled down with the two-liter flow of oxygen. No more bluish tinge to his lips. And his breathing rate . . . She nodded at his gentle snore. Far better.
    She stepped away from the bedside, out of hearing range. “Poor, sweet man.”
    “Did you have to give him something?” Nick asked in a low whisper.
    “No. The home health nurse keeps