Something cool and damp replaced her fingers. It was a blessed relief against the heat of his head.
He tried to tell her thank-you, but the muscles in his face wouldn't cooperate, and he only mumbled.
Grandma Mackie wouldn't have taken care of him like this.
West wouldn't have. Iris either.
Right now, Molly was the only friend he had.
Molly hadthe Christmas tree halfway disassembled when Cord roused in the evening.
She'd graduated from worry and was much closer to all-out panic. She'd never had to take care of someone with a fever so high.
But seeing him wake up soothed her slightly.
The house had gone dark around them. She had a lamp on in the corner, and the television was playing a news station—mostly because she couldn't stand the silence. Hound Dog was curled in front of the outside door, smart enough to keep out of the way of the cardboard boxes she had strewn across the floor. She hoped the cats were sleeping. She hadn't had the guts to check on them yet.
"What're you doing?" Cord asked from the couch, voice rough.
"You're awake!" She didn't want to let on how happy that made her, but she was afraid her relief was leaking out anyway.
He shoved off the pile of blankets she'd added to as the day had worn on and his shivers hadn't abated. "I didn't ask you to take that down." He got as far as sitting up before he slumped, resting his head against the back of the couch. His eyes were slitted, watching as she yanked the next piece of green pipe out, getting scratched by the awful fake bristles for her trouble.
"You look like cow manure," she said cheerfully. His face was gray, the skin beneath his eyes saggy. He definitely wasn't over it yet.
But he was awake, and that was something to celebrate.
"I feel like cow manure," he mumbled.
"You should eat something." She dusted her hands against her thighs and stepped around boxes to head for the kitchen.
She ladled a bowl of the hearty beef stew she'd had going on the stove all day. Sliced a thick cut of the bread she'd baked that afternoon. Added butter, the way her dad had liked it. She ran a tall glass of water, knowing Cord needed to stay hydrated to fight this thing off. Added Tylenol to a napkin.
She returned to the living room and found him slouched in the same position. She put the plate and glass on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes had slid closed, but she didn't think he was asleep again.
"You need me to spoon feed you?" she teased.
One corner of his mouth lifted. "Maybe. That smells real good, but I don't know if I can lift my arms."
But even as he said it, he straightened. Lifted the plate to his lap, steadied the wobbling bowl.
She went back to the tree. Only two more parts to separate, and it would be completely down.
"I couldn't stand it anymore," she said, as if he'd asked her opinion. "It was a really depressing tree."
He grunted as he took a bite of her stew. Agreeing, she assumed.
"Don't worry, I saved your gift." She pointed to the wrapped rectangle she'd set on the windowsill. She might've spent several minutes feeling up the package. She was certain it was a framed picture. But of what?
He downed the Tylenol and gulped the water, emptying the glass in a few swallows. She made another trip to the kitchen for more.
"Where'd you get this bread?" he asked when she returned and set the glass on the coffee table.
"I made it." Pounding the dough had been a therapeutic way to assuage her worries.
"It's good," he mumbled around another bite.
The praise made her warm and gooey inside. She'd make the bread every day if he liked it that much.
