33 The Return of Bowie Bravo by Christine Rimmer Page B

wondering tone.
    Bowie, as calm as their son—and even more white around the mouth—spoke to her then. “I’m guessing he’ll need some stitches. We should call Brett.…”
    “I’m on it.” She turned.
    “There’s a phone here,” he said.
    But she was already dashing back the way she’d come. The truth was, her mind had gone blank. She couldn’t remember her own sister’s number. And in the house, she had it on auto dial. She grabbed the phone the minute she was back inside, hit the right button for Angie’s house.
    Brett answered. “Bravo residence.”
    In a breathless rush, she told him that Johnny had cut his hand and probably needed stitches.
    “Wrap it tight and keep it elevated,” he said.
    “Done.”
    “Good. Bring him over to the clinic, then. I’ll meet you there.”
    She hung up and whirled to run back to the barn. But Bowie and Johnny, with his small, bloody fist high, were already coming up the back-porch steps. She held the door open for them. “Brett says he’ll meet us at the clinic.”
    Bowie asked, “Sera asleep?”
    “I’ll just get her.” Glory started to whirl away again, this time for the stairs.
    He caught her arm. “Wait.” She froze—and blinked down at the sight of his big, warm hand wrapped around her elbow. He let go instantly. “I just mean, why wake her up?” he asked carefully. “I can take him—or stay here with her and you can go.”
    Johnny gazed up at Bowie. “We should go,” he said gravely, his fist still up in the air. “Mom can watch Sera.”
    Glory wanted to burst into tears. Her son needed stitches and he hadn’t once cried or clung to her. Plus, he had actually volunteered to let Bowie take him.
    She was happy about that—or at least, she knew it for the breakthrough it was. He was a great kid. And it looked like he might actually begin to forge a relationship with his father, after all.
    Still, her mother’s heart ached. He was growing up so fast. She’d never realized—how swiftly it was all going to happen, how quickly he would grow up and start to claim his independence, a state that set him apart from her.
    Bowie, still way too white around the mouth and grim around the eyes, deferred to her. “Glory?”
    She made herself nod. “Yeah, you two go on. I’ll stay with Sera.”
    Now he looked doubtful—or maybe more like scared to death. “You sure?”
    “Come on, Bowie,” Johnny insisted. He actually got hold of Bowie’s sleeve with his uninjured hand and gave it a tug. “I need to see Uncle Brett right now. ’Cause I need stitches. ”
    Bowie seemed to shake himself. “All right, let’s get going.” He fumbled in the pocket of the jacket he must have thrown on when she ran for the phone. The keys jingled in his hand.
    Johnny was already headed for the front door, rubber boots clump, clump, clumping past the stairs. Bowie sent her a last, desperate glance over his shoulder as he went after him.
    The front door opened. And then it shut. A minute later, she heard Bowie’s SUV start up outside.
    She put her hand against her aching heart and whispered, “Drive carefully,” even though they were already gone.
    The lights were on at the clinic when Bowie pulled into a parking space in front.
    In the backseat, Johnny barely waited for the car to stop moving before popping the latch on his seat belt and jumping out. Injured hand still held high, he raced up the steps and grabbed the doorknob with his good hand. It was open.
    Johnny threw the door wide, “Uncle Brett! I’m here and it looks like I’m gonna need stitches!”
    Brett called, “Back here, Johnny!”
    Johnny bolted across the reception area to the open doorway that led to the exam rooms. Bowie followed, hating himself for what had happened.
    The lights were on in the first exam room. Brett signaled them in. “So, what’s happened here?”
    The blood—so dark, so red, so much of it—had soaked through the torn section of T-shirt. Bowie felt sick every time he looked