“Yeah. I think so. Can I have more water? I don’t know why I’m so thirsty.”
“You’re probably dehydrated.” He fills my glass and hands it back to me, watching as I drink this one down too. “Maybe you can sleep some now. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow if you can sleep for real.”
“I’ll try.” I hand him back the empty glass and shift slightly, trying to determine if I need to go to the bathroom first. I don’t, so I flop back down.
He pulls the covers up over me, and this time I leave them because I actually feel cool.
He leans down to kiss me slightly on the mouth. “Get some sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
I touch his beard just to verify that he’s here and he’s him. Then I take a couple of deep breaths and close my eyes. I hear myself murmuring before the world gets dark again, “I’m glad you’re here.”
The next dayI do feel better, and the day after that I’m even better still. The fever doesn’t come back, and my injury starts to heal. Eventually the itchiness around the wound troubles me more than anything else.
Micah helps out when I need him to and backs off when I’m irritable and handles all the daily chores and duties without question or instruction.
The only thing he’s pushy about is treating the wound site to make sure it doesn’t get infected.
A week later, I wake up feeling almost like myself again, other than pestering superficial irritation of the healing injury.
Micah is in a good mood. He went hunting early and returned with a wild turkey, and he’s humming as heplucks and prepares the carcass while I wash my hair for the first time since I was shot.
I use the rainwater so that he doesn’t have to stop his work to keep watch by the creek.
After a minute, I recognize the song he’s humming as a popular country song from a few years before Impact.
“You’ve got a good voice,” I tell him, towel drying my hair. It’s warm today, and I’m wearing only my sports bra (Micah washed it twice and got out as much blood as he could) and a pair of shorts.
“You think so?” He glances over his shoulder at me with a relaxed smile, his eyes making a quick detour down my body before they return to my face.
“Yes. Don’t try to sound modest. You obviously know you can sing. Do you know all the words to that one?”
“Sure.”
I’ve started combing out my wet hair, but I pause to give him an impatient look. “Well?”
“Well, what?” He’s hiding a grin.
It’s nice to see him like this again. He was tense in a quiet, restrained way for days because he was worried about my injury but trying not to make a big deal about it for my sake. “You know exactly what. Aren’t you going to sing it for me?”
He looks like he’s going to say one thing but then changes his mind. Instead, he asks softly, “You really want me to?”
“Of course I do. You wanted me to sing for you before, and I did. So why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugs, looking oddly self-conscious for such a laid-back, confident man. He works on cleaning the turkey for a few minutes in silence before he starts singing.
It’s a song about lost love. Nothing particularly striking or profound. But his voice is better than good. It’s warm, deep, rich and perfectly pitched. It conveys an emotion he’s always reticent to convey in any other way.
It touches me. So deeply my throat is tight by the second verse.
I stop combing my hair and just stand there and listen, no doubt gaping at him. He’s not looking at me though. He’s focused down on his hands as they move.
When he finishes the song, both of us are motionless for longer than is normal.
Finally he glances over at me with a hesitant look that’s not like him.
“That was beautiful,” I manage to say, sounding hoarse.
He clears his throat. “You’re a better singer than me. You don’t need to exaggerate to soothe my ego.”
