"I loved you," he continues, his words slurring together. "I would've done anything for you, and you left me. You killed yourself and left me alone."
It is his wife. Tears prick my eyes. I've never heard him sound like this, so devastated, so raw.
"I can't..." he gasps, tears rolling down his face. "I can't love anyone else. You wrecked me. You completely wrecked me."
I reach over and touch his forehead. He's burning up.
"Chase, wake up." I shake his shoulder gently. "You're having a nightmare."
His eyes fly open, but they're unfocused. "Paisley?"
"Yeah, it's me. You're sick. You have a fever," I rub my thumbs against the skin of his forehead.
"I'm fine."
Shaking my head, I argue. "You're not fine. You just yelled what I think is your dead wife's name and said she ruined your life."
He closes his eyes, turning his face away. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Chase, you're really sick." But he's asleep again, not hearing what I'm saying.
Over the next week, I become his nurse. I monitor his fever, which spikes and drops and spikes again. I make him drink water and broth even when he doesn't want to. I change the sweat-soaked sheets and wash his face with cool cloths.
And I try not to think about what he said in his delirium.
*I can't love anyone else. You wrecked me.*
I tell myself it doesn't matter. That he was out of his head with fever, that people say all kinds of things when they're sick. But it sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold.
Does he still love her? Even after all these years, even after everything?
And if he does, is there enough room in his heart to love me too?
I push the thoughts aside and focus on taking care of him. I've never taken care of a horse before, but I figure out how to feed and water Blackjack, how to muck out his stall. He's patient with me, nickering softly when I bring him his grain.
"Your dad is sick," I tell him. "But he's going to be okay."
I hope I'm telling the truth.
Biscuit becomes my constant companion, following me from room to room, curling up next to Chase when I'm not in the bed. It's like she knows he needs us both.
On the seventh day, Chase's fever finally breaks. I'm sitting in the chair next to the bed, half-asleep, when I hear him stir.
"Paisley?" The voice is rough and ragged, barely audible.
My eyes snap open. "Hey. You're awake."
"Water?"
I pour him a glass and help him sit up enough to drink. His hands are shaking, weak from days of being sick.
"What happened?" he asks, looking around like it's the first time he's seen the room.
"You've been burning up with fever for a week. I've been taking care of you."
He looks around, seeing everything for the first time. His gaze stops at the basin of water and cloths on the nightstand, at the empty soup bowls stacked on the dresser. "You took care of me?"
"Of course I did."
