I walk toward his bed, barely breathing. Bandages cover most of his head. Drips, tubes, and other medical paraphernalia dangle from him, attached to more screens than it takes to run NASA, it seems.
A single, padded chair is tucked away into one corner. I lift the thing, which turns out to be heavier than I expected, and lug it across the room, planting it next to his bed. There’s enough room for me to curl into its seat. Pressing the tips of my fingers to the back of his hand, I begin to talk.
Everything—from what I love about Coyote Falls to how much of an asshole he’s been—pours out. How I appreciate him cleaning my wolf blanket to what a pompous but efficient man his lawyer is. Winnie’s reaction. West. How I’ve canceled Alaska. That Billy and West are off investigating the bull incident. How he made his eight-second bell and won the bet with Jed.
That Coyote Falls is his.
When I run out of words, though my voice croaks over eachone painfully, I start from the top. By the time light slants through Cord’s single window, the nurses are used to me, despite defying the doctor’s orders of short visitations.
Like Cord, I don’t care about the rules anymore. Right now, they have no meaning. Only the man in front of me matters, and bringing him home. I never stop talking, adding the surgeon to the list for my next pass.
I press my cheek to the chair’s plastic frame. At this point, I’m almost certain the shape will leave a permanent imprint. The discomfort keeps me awake most of the time, and I refuse to stop, not even when West arrives and pokes me in an attempt to feed me. I shoo him away, too.
A nurse checks Cord’s vitals, hanging around longer than usual.
“Is something wrong?” I stifle a yawn. My throat clogs, thick with sleep and chatting constantly. When did I drift off? My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I rouse. What if he woke but fell back to sleep because he thought I left? What if he took a last breath and left this world for good while I was sleeping?
“I’m not sure,” she murmurs, wandering out the door, still writing on her clipboard.
“Dammit, Cord. I only dozed for a minute.” I blink gritty eyes that refuse to focus. The brightening sunlight seems to fulfill a function my mind refuses to grasp after being in the dark for so long.
“It only takes a minute, wolf girl.”
Cord’s voice rasps thin and soft, but it’s there.
My head jerks as I stare at him. Tears run unchecked down my cheeks, my body functioning just fine before my brain checks in for the morning.
“You’re awake,” I manage, heart ratcheting up somewhere in the realm of my throat.
His eyes lined with red but open and fixed on me, Cord offers a weak smile.
TWENTY-ONE
CORD
Who I Can’t Be
Her face blurs at the edges; then she’s gone. I blink, the room around her too bright after so many hours spent…elsewhere. Days? My brain chugs with all the power of a slug. Unlike a night’s rest, no matter how terrible, I have no concept of time passing. Blankness occupies that space. The world has simply turned on without me in it.
I force my eyes to stay open, searching for her blazing blue gaze. She looks so exhausted—has she stayed the entire time? My eyes close and open again, but all I see now is an empty chair. White light blares into my face, narrowing to a pinpoint where retina burn becomes inevitable. A nurse who looks nothing like any medical fantasy I’ve ever had pries my eyelids open.
“Gentle,” I croak.
“Welcome back.” She grins.
Then two faces in white masks peer down at me.
I squint as they check me over, trying to remember my name, but there’s…nothing. Not today. No answers to any of their questions set on repeat until I want to holler at them but don’t.
Because I know I’ve been here before. This is familiar. Butback then, even though my body didn’t work, my mind did. Now… If my brain refuses to come to the party, I don’t know that I can function. Ha. Function. A ridiculous term. A chill grips me, my stomach lurching.
My eyes squeeze shut, opening to two panicked faces.
“Okay, personal space issues.” I reach out, shoving them both back. A pinch flares at my knee, then my toe. “Fucking ouch.” I kick back.
Two sets of eyes blink, and a grin spreads over the surgeon’s face.
“Welcome back, Cordell.”
