The issue is that the fucking hospital won’t discharge my right-hand man, and they won’t give me a straight answer as towhy.
No matter who I talked to, I got the same answers.
Waiting on bloodwork. A few scans came back with some concerning markers. We don’t have a diagnosis yet.
Heat stroke is bad enough in the first place, and now I have to worry about whatever the hell the doctors won’t tell me. As if hospitals don’t make me uncomfortable enough already.
Even Al is refusing to tell me anything. He keeps saying that he doesn’t understand the “medical mumbo-jumbo,” but there’sa look in his eyes that says he’s hiding something. It only makes me more unsettled, knowing that whatever’s going on is serious enough that he won’t tell me until he can lay everything out.
I try to tell myself that worrying about it now won’t do me any good. Laura always told me not to borrow grief from the future, but it’s so hard when I don’t even know what to be worried about.
I take a moment to cool my head after I park, leaning heavily against the steering wheel and taking deep breaths. It doesn’t work as well as I’d like, my head a mess of memories of those white-washed hospital walls. Watching Laura fade away against the backdrop of hospital bed sheets had ruined me. Then seeing Al in that same horrible paper gown, hooked up to the same endlessly beeping machines, made me nauseous. The queasiness has yet to fade, and all I want is to hide away from everything until my hands stop shaking.
There’s work to be done, though, whether I’m in any shape to do it or not. We’re already down a man today.
I don’t want to make it any harder on my ranchers than it already is.
I should really tell Jenny what the nurse said before I throw myself into the day, but I can’t bear to say the words out loud right now. Besides, things with her are rocky on a good day. Probably best to just get ahead of the work and deal with the consequences when they roll around.
Before the door closes behind me, Jenny and Mary round the corner of the barn. They’re talking excitedly, Mary gesturing around and pointing at things on the little tablet in her hand as Jenny listens attentively. My daughter actually looks happy, relaxed in a way I don’t often see nowadays. That easy smile is certainly never pointed my way.
I start over toward them without much thought, desperate for any form of comfort or distraction I can get. It’s probablyimportant to talk to Mary about broaching the subject of our relationship with Jenny—and Christ, it’s weird to think about being in arelationshipafter all this time. Right now, though, all that really matters is getting to stand close enough to smell her perfume, maybe even being gifted one of those city-lighting smiles if I’m lucky. I need the world to be gentle to me, just for a moment.
Before I catch either woman’s eye, I hear Jenny’s ringtone float up out of her pocket. She sees me just as she pulls her phone out and excuses herself from Mary to answer the call.
“Be nice to Mary,” she hisses as she passes me, covering the receiver with her hand. “She’s got questions about the barn.”
I don’t get a chance to respond. Jenny’s behavior immediately shifts to something brighter as she switches her attention back to the phone call. She wanders away, continuing her conversation with whatever debtor she’s trying to sweet-talk into giving us an extension on the bills.
It’s a clear dismissal, and I let my gaze wander right back to Mary.
She’s standing at the entrance to the barn, tapping away on her tablet. A lock of hair has fallen free of her ponytail, and my fingers itch to tuck it behind her ear. She looks up as I step closer, her smile going from excited to embarrassed to shy in the course of a second. A light flush blooms across the ridge of her nose, and I just barely manage to hold back a smile.
“Ms. Bryce,” I say, stopping in front of her.
She raises an unimpressed brow, but the corner of her lips twitch. I follow when she steps inside the barn, seeking some shade.
“Back on a last name basis then, Pops?”
I instantly cringe back at the nickname, stumbling over my own feet. She laughs when she sees the look of pure disgust on my face, and I shake my head.
“Don’tcall me Pops,” I say vehemently. “I don’t need a reminder that you’re closer to my daughter’s age than mine.”
She rolls her eyes at me and tucks her tablet beneath her arm, staring me down.
“Don’t call me Ms. Bryce, then,” she tells me. “My name is Mary. Use it.”
I’ve never been quite so enamored by someone giving me sass, but for some reason the no-nonsense look on Mary’s face lights a fire in my gut. I stare straight into her eyes, enjoying the challenge I see there. Suddenly, I can’t bring myself to be worried about telling Jenny, because all I can think about is Mary.
She’s wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans, and my mind immediately conjures up thoughts of how soft her skin would feel if I slipped my hands under her clothes.
“Mary.”
My voice is soft, a low rumble in my chest, and her face shifts from teasing determination to something heated and interested.
“Everett,” she says, just as soft.
I should be more in control than this, right? I’m closer to 60 than I’d like to admit, but I feel 20 again when I’m around Mary.
