“Until what? You’re lying facedown in the mud because the wind is so strong? Until you fall and hit your head and drown because your mouth fills up with rainwater? Eve, this weather isn’t just dangerous for driving. You need to get inside.” I take her face in my hands and it’swarm.“And you know what? I promised Izzy I’d make you stop. I can’t just stand around and let you do this to yourself.”
She scoffs. “‘Let me.’ Ryder, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. I think I know when I’ve hit my limit.”
“Says the girl who told me the other day she suffers fromserious burnout every year because shedoesn’tknow her limit.”
“This is different. It’s a storm. This is theend of the season. I don’t get to just stop.”
“You have to.”
She glares at me like she’s daring me to make her.
And I wonder if that’sexactlywhat she’s doing. If maybe she’s asking me to make her stop because she can’t do it for herself. Like maybe this insane drive to make this farm work needs a limit that she can’t find for herself.
So I take a deep breath, lean forward, and hoist her over my shoulder.
“Ryder!”
I march over to the bungalow, tear the back door open—and promptly grab it when the wind tries to take it—and set her down in the kitchen.
Water drips off of her, landing in a puddle at her feet.
She stares down at it, and a second later, goes to remove her shoes with fingers that can’t seem to keep hold of the laces.
When my hands wrap around hers, I realize just how cold she is.
Like ice fresh from the freezer.
I push her hands away so I can get her shoes, untying them and taking her hand so she doesn’t collapse as she pulls her foot out.
She shrugs out of her coat, letting it fall to the ground on top of her shoes.
I thought the raincoat would have at least protected her torso, but this kind of rain defies all laws of logic.
And suddenly I’m incredibly thankful I chose this moment to stop us.
She fumbles with the fastening of her overalls, her fingers too numb to grab hold.
“May I?” I ask, waiting until she nods to undo the straps.
The denim sticks to her and she has to push it down over her hips and her legs.
Together, we pull soaking wet clothes off of her arms and legs and leave them in a pile on the floor. Underneath all of her soaking wet layers, she’s in only a pair of spandex shorts and a crop top.
I run my hands along her arms and she shivers at the touch.
I’m not an expert in hypothermia, but she seems off. Maybe she’s tired. Overworked, definitely. Cold as ice, yes.
And while my brain spins in every direction trying to figure out the right thing to do, she sinks straight to the kitchen floor, leaning up against the wall and folding her arms around her knees. She lets her head hang, and when she wipes her face with her hands—not her nose, but her cheeks—I realize she’s crying.
And I decide that I have one singular goal that I will achieve if it means the death of me.
I am going to make this woman feel better.
I kick my shoes off and pad into her living room, grabbing every damn sunflower blanket I can find and tossing them on top of her.
She grabs them but doesn’t pull them around her.
It’s more like she’s clenching them for comfort.
