“Oh, my God,” she cried and dropped to her knees beside him. She placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers. A lump the size of a marble swelled from his left temple.
“Pete?” she whispered, choked by the fear that crowded her throat. When he didn’t respond, she quickly rose to dampen a washcloth, then knelt beside him again. “Pete,” she repeated frantically as she bathed his face. “Come on, Pete, talk to me.”
His eyelashes fluttered, and she lifted the cloth, clutching it to her breasts, her breath locked tightly in her lungs as she watched his eyes blink open. His gaze met hers, and he squinted, slowly bringing her into focus.
“Carol?” He tried to sit up, but sank back to the floor with a groan.
“Did you faint?” she asked, leaning over him.
“I…I don’t know,” he said, his voice thready and weak.
“What were you doing out of bed?”
“Had to pee. I—” he groaned again and lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. “Took a pill. Made me groggy.”
“You should’ve waited until I got back,” she scolded, “so that I could have helped you.”
“Don’t need a woman to help me pee,” he grumbled.
Frowning, she tossed the washcloth to the sink, then bent over to slip an arm beneath his shoulders. “We need to get you back to bed. Can you walk?”
“Y-yeah. I…I think so.” He pressed an elbow against the floor and, with her help, levered himself to a sitting position. He sat there a moment, breathing hard, his shoulders stooped, his hands dangling limply between his knees.
“Are you okay?” she asked uneasily.
“Give me a minute.” He inhaled deeply, then reached up to brace a wide hand on the edge of the sink. Holding his injured leg out in front of him, he hauled himself awkwardly to his feet. Carol followed, supporting him as best she could with an arm wrapped around his waist. He hopped a couple of steps, his lips pressed tightly together, avoiding putting weight on his right leg. His face was chalk-white, and sweat glistened on his forehead at the effort.
“Just take it slow,” she instructed nervously. Holding on to him and taking as much of his weight as possible, she slowly guided him back to the bed.
He collapsed across it, rolling to his back and throwing an arm across his eyes. Carefully Carol placed the pillow beneath his knee again, then straightened, looking down at him. His face was pale, his jaw slack, his chest heaving with each drawn breath.
And she knew there was no way she could leave him on his own for the night.
“I’m staying.”
“I can take care of myself,” he grumbled. “I don’t need a damn nursemaid.”
“Tough. You’ve got one.” She snatched the sheet up and over his legs. “I’ll need to run over to my house and pick up a few things. You stay in bed until I get back. I won’t be gone long.”
She started to turn away, but stopped when he caught her hand from behind. She squeezed her eyes shut as the warmth of his fingers closed around hers. It would be so easy to let the years slip away. To climb into bed with him. To wrap her arms around him and just hold him. To forget that he wasn’t the man for her.
Taking a deep breath, she forced open her eyes and slowly turned back around, careful to hide her emotions from him. “What?”
“Thanks, Carol.”
She swallowed hard, fighting the desire to go to him, to brush the damp hair from his forehead and press her lips there. To tell him how much she’d missed him. How many times she’d needed him. Slowly she eased her fingers from his and backed away. From him. From temptation.
“N-no problem,” she stammered, then whirled for the door.
Carol parked her truck alongside her house and sank back against the seat, her heart heavy, her nerves raw. But as she stared at the white frame house with its dark-green shutters and its window boxes brimming with a profusion of trailing geraniums and sweet alyssum, the sense of satisfaction and pride she always felt when she looked at her home slowly filled her. This is what was important to her, she told herself. This is what she wanted. A home. Stability. Something she’d never known growing up. Something she would have lost if she hadn’t broken off the relationship with Pete two years ago.
Though she only leased the property, she hoped to own it someday. That and the land that surrounded it. Abandoned for over five years, the house had been in bad shape when she’d first leased it. But she’d accomplished a great deal in the three years she’d lived there. She’d scrubbed it from top to bottom and given it a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. She’d repaired the fencing and made the old barn useable again. She hoped to add an arena soon, so that she wouldn’t have to use Clayton’s for her horseback riding classes. When she did, she’d be able to increase the number of classes she offered. Maybe even hold a few clinics.
And someday she hoped to have a family to share her home with.
Unconsciously she rubbed her hand down her thigh, still able to feel the warmth of Pete’s fingers on her palm. She’d told herself a million times over the past two years that she’d done the right thing in ending the relationship with him…but she’d never been able to forget him. Not entirely. Not when a part of him would be with her always as a reminder.
Her gaze strayed to the oak tree that stood like a sentinel on the small rise behind her house. Tears blurred her vision as she stared at the old tree with its barrel-size trunk and its low-hanging limbs. So many memories were tied to that tree. So many heartaches.
Slowly she climbed from the truck and started toward the tree, stopping along the way to gather a fistful of wildflowers. When she reached the top of the rise, she dropped to her knees beneath the spread of the oak’s comforting limbs and carefully laid the flowers on the ground. Sinking back on her heels, she dipped her chin to her chest and let the tears she’d suppressed all day fall.
Fresh from a shower and dressed for bed, Carol stood in the doorway, tray in hand, staring at Pete, unable to take that first step into the room where he slept. He lay just as she’d left him earlier that evening—flat on his back, his propped-up knee tenting the sheet she’d draped over it. Earlier, when she’d helped him back to bed after his fall, he’d flung an arm across his eyes, as if to block out the last rays of sunlight that had spilled through the bedroom window…or to block out the pain. His other arm lay across his abdomen, bunching the sheet low on his waist.
A wistful smile trembled at her lips as she noticed that his thumb was hooked in the waist of his briefs, a habit of his when he slept that she had often teased him about.
She eased across the room and set the tray on the bedside table, then turned to look down at him, unable to resist this unobserved opportunity to do so. Each feature of his face was so painfully familiar to her, so dear. The roman-shaped nose, the high slash of cheekbone, the faint scar—a parting gift from a bronc he’d ridden—that ran like a railroad track along his right jaw. She had to lace her fingers together to resist the temptation to reach out and touch him.
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