“I’m leaving supplies outside the door,” Sam’s Australian voice called from her front porch.
She couldn’t muster a response. She’d texted him earlier, like she’d told him she would, but she hadn’t expected a delivery.
After her next trip to the bathroom, she dragged herself to the door, which seemed a mile away. He’d left a reusable grocery sack outside for her. She pulled it indoors, crumpled into a seated position next to it, and looked inside. It contained a six-pack of cucumber electrolyte water and a six-pack of organic protein shakes. Also, envelopes containing supplements, ibuprofen, and instructions on when and how often to take each.
Fabulous. She was at the mercy of a health nut.
The rest of her world—her family, her work, her friends, her loft in Nashville, her plans—had vanished.
The only things that remained: sickness, fear, the inside of this cottage, and her desperation to escape all three.
Later that night, Sam stood at his bedroom window.
His bed waited behind him, covers a mess because he’d just been lying in it, trying to sleep. He couldn’t see the guesthouse from the first story. But from here, on the second story, he had a distant, downward view of the guesthouse’s roofline and front wall.
Genevieve had left the porch light on.
Somehow, she’d changed the feel of his farm. She was only onepetite person. But it was as if she were transmitting invisible air waves that altered the whole place.
Tonight, those air waves carried suffering.
Before she’d come, Sugar Maple Farm had been full of solitude, his grim thoughts, and work. But at least he’d been able to concentrate enough to read before bed, to sleep.
Now all those things had become difficult for him.
She was sick, and no one but him knew why.
All his brain and body could do was worry.
Genevieve called her current pain specialist. His office agreed to log an Oxy prescription at the Riverside Pharmacy in Misty River.
As soon as she disconnected the call, she curled into the fetal position. It helped to know that, should she reach a point when she could no longer stand this, she could get access to pills.
So far, she’d been able to stand it.Barely. But she’d done it by forcing herself to remember hitting that stone planter with her car. Then waking up in Sam’s cottage, ignorant of how she’d gotten there. Over and over, she confronted those memories.
Also, practically, she didn’t feel close to human enough to drive to the pharmacy.
Also, she’d let a lot of people down. God, most of all. Her family, her friends, and the thousands of women who looked to her for inspiration. She didn’t want to put herself through the pain and disgrace she’d face if she was caught doing something stupid while taking Oxy. But even more than that, she absolutely couldn’t stomach the thought of subjecting her family and friends to pain and disgrace. She refused to hurt them like that.
Three brisk knocks sounded on her door. “I’m leaving supplies,” Sam called.
She’d come this far.
She could make it just a little bit longer. She’d broken chunks of survival into small amounts. Another fifteen minutes. Another hour.
Just a little bit longer.
Sweetie,” Mom crooned, smoothing a wet washcloth against Genevieve’s forehead. The coolness of it seeped into her heated skin. “I’msosorry that you’re sick.”
Genevieve had kept her mother at bay as long as possible by telling her she didn’t want her to come by because she didn’t want her to catch the flu. Sadly, that type of logical reasoning only worked against her overactive maternal instincts so long.
“Where do you think you caught this?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know.” Pride and guilt formed a powerful muzzle.
“I’m going to bundle you into my car and take you to see Dr. Honeycutt.”
“No,” Genevieve gritted out. “I don’t have the strength to move from this bed. Plus, I don’t need a doctor. I just need to ride this out.”
