“You know, if you’re sleeping with the neighbor girl, you can just tell me, Wes. I’m a grown man. I can handle it. No need to make up stories. It’s easy enough to see the way you’ve been lookin’ at her and cookin’ her dinner the other night and all.”
I groan. “Christ, Pops. That’s not what’s happening. She really is sick.”
“Mm-hmm.” I ignore his dubious tone and the fact that he thinks I’m over here having sex with his neighbor.
“Are you going to be okay at the house by yourself? You need anything?”
He chuckles into the phone. “I’ve been taking care of myself on the ranch for years, Wes. I can handle a night alone while you do a little bedroom rodeo.”
I bark out a shocked laugh. “What is wrong with you tonight, old man?”
“I just got back from a fun pitch night. I’m feelin’ feisty.”
“Well, you’re wrong about me and Sawyer. She just needed some help. Tripp and Allie were busy, and she doesn’t even have the energy to feed herself. Besides, someone’s gotta take care of the animals.”
He grunts, sounding pleased. “Good. She could use someone takin’ care of her. She’s always too damn stubborn to let anyone else help.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, recalling the fiery look in her eyes when I’d first come in to check on her. “I’ll be back at the ranch in the morning to help bring the last of that hay into the barn.”
“Take good care of Sawyer. We’ll see ya bright and early.”
I stand on the porch and ruminate on the assumptions that Pops made. If he sees the way I look at her, does that mean everyone else sees it too?
It was hard not to appreciate a woman like Sawyer Addams. She was like a wildfire, mesmerizing and destructive. But I was starting to remember that I used to enjoy living life on the edge, and I found myself being drawn closer to the flames, despite the chance of being burned.
Left in the Dust
Sawyer
Idon’t think Wes owes me anything anymore. He helped me into my bed after making sure I ate something, and I passed out almost immediately. He must have stayed here all night because he woke me up twice to give me more medicine. The second time he told me he’d turned out the horses and taken care of the goats.
Sun filters through my sheer curtains as I get up to use the bathroom. It feels like my body is weighed down with lead just walking a few feet. The simplest things take a huge amount of effort and my joints protest as I sit down on the toilet, the deep ache from my flare-up making even the most mundane things an arduous task.
After finishing up in the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lips curl in frustration at what I see. My face is red and swollen, and my hair looks like a rat's nest. I push through the sorenessin my shoulders to brush out the tangles and then braid it to the side so I don't have to lift my arms more than necessary.
I drag myself into the kitchen where my meds are sitting on the counter. I swallow the prednisone my rheumatologist prescribed to me for flare-ups, my daily immunosuppressant, and some more ibuprofen. My countertop looks more like a damn pharmacy than part of my kitchen.
The clock on the little microwave on my counter tells me it’s well past my usual wake up time, but it doesn’t matter because I’m already tired again. I snag a yogurt from the fridge and trudge to the couch.
I wince as I open the yogurt, pain lancing through the joints of my fingers, but I’m grateful they still have enough strength to manage the yogurt lid. I stare down at my yogurt, tears stinging the backs of my eyes as I realize I forgot to get a spoon.
It’s not that I don’twantto get up and get one, but I don't think Ican. The kitchen feels so far away when my body is fighting itself.
I breathe through my frustration and stare at my open yogurt and the little tin foil lid in my other hand. I sigh and begin to bend and shape the lid into a makeshift spoon. It’s a little flimsy, but it does the trick. I turn the TV on and watch some crime show while I eat, letting memories of the last few days replay in my head.
I don’t know what it is about Wes that makes me want to spill my guts to him. First, about my ex. Then, about my lupus and my frustration at the betrayal of my own body, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, it’s becoming a weird habit.
His hazel eyes had widened in shock when I’d mentioned lupus. Tripp hadn’t told him, which made my outburst even more embarrassing.
I know I won’t feel well enough to bring the horses in or do night check, and it makes my stomach clench to know I’ll need to ask forhelp again. I take a second to get a hold of myself, to stop the feeling of shame that is winding its way into my stomach. Shame that I know is unwarranted, even though a small voice whispers that I’m a burden to everyone whenever a flare-up occurs.
I grind my teeth together, reminding myself that the people here are like family to me. That I would do the same for them in a heartbeat if the tables were turned. And that not a single one of them has ever griped or complained about helping me when I need it.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table, joints protesting as I weakly curl my fingers around it. I prop it on my pillow so I don't have to hold it while I find Tripp in my recent calls, but instead, I see a text from Wes.
City Boy
How are you feeling today?
