I take the lack of reply to mean you’re resting or you just can't type because of the flare-up.
I’ll be over later to do night check and to check in on you.
How did he know texting would be difficult during a flare-up? And why is he so determined to take care of me? I can't make any sense of it. I haven’t exactly been pleasant enough for him to want to go out of his way. I sigh, resigned to the fact that he’s coming over again, just as my phone lights up with an incoming call—from none other than Wes Dawson.
I press the speaker button and answer the way I always do.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out in a feeble croak.
"You sound awful," Wes says bluntly.
"Such a charmer," I deadpan.
"Sorry." His tone softens. "Just wanted to check on you."
I roll my eyes. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" he presses. "Do you need anything? I read heating pads and ice packs can help with sore joints. I can pick some up if you want."
"I'm sure. I don't need you mother-henning me," I grit out.
"Alright, alright," he concedes, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'll leave you alone for now, but I'll be over later."
"Fine," I agree reluctantly. I press my thumb to the screen before he can ask any more questions about how I’m feeling or what I need. He's done more than enough.
I want to go out and see to the horses, to let their gentle energy settle whatever emotions are rolling through me. I want to check on Dixie and make sure the goats aren’t breaking out of their pen yet again—but the moment I sit up for too long, the room tilts, and my head spins.
With a quiet sigh, I sink back down, letting the soft hum of the television lull me to sleep once more.
I jolt awake to the sound of my screen door slamming. “Still alive, Red?” Wes calls from the doorway.
“Mm-hmm,” I grunt from the couch.
I crack an eye open and see Wes carrying in a couple of paper bags that look full. He’s wearing that worn-out Stetson and his Levi’s that cut tight across his thighs. They’re covered in dust, which means he’s been working outside all day while I’ve made my home here on this couch. I watch him kick off his boots and set the bags down before he’s in front of me.
He looks me over in a slow perusal, his fingers scratching at the stubble that’s growing in. It suits him, makes him look a little less clean cut and more rugged.
“You still look like shit,” he says, snapping me out of my appreciation of his new rustic-looking scruff.
I’m well aware that I look like shit. I’m swollen and my face is red and splotchy.
“Ugh. I hate you.” I throw the blanket over my face. “Did you lose your razor? You’re looking a little rough around the edges, city boy.” I peek out from under the blanket to see how my insult lands.
Wes stares down at me dubiously with his hands poised on his hips. “I ran out and forgot to pick some up when I was in town. You must be feeling a little bit better, since you have the energy to disparage the facial hair today.”
The sound of a whimper and scratching at the screen door prevents my reply. Wes glances toward the door, a slight smile curving his full lips. “Dixie’s worried about you. She’s been standing guard at the door night and day.”
“You can let her in. I’ll regret it later when I have to get up and let her back out, but it’d be nice to have some company that doesn’t tell me how awful I look every time they come in.”
Wes gives me an apologetic look before stalking over to the door to let Dixie in. She bounds around the couch and sniffs at me anxiously.
“I’m alright,” I tell her, giving her a scratch behind her ears while she breathes anxious doggy breath right in my face. Her tongue drags over the tip of my nose and then she circles three times before plopping down right in front of the couch.
“That dog sure loves you.”
“What’s not to love?” I tease.
Wes smirks. “I’ll refrain from answering that question and make us some dinner.”
