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  “Harrison?”

  “Her brother, my husband. He’s a doctor.” He looks at me, clearly apologetic. “I’m sorry you drove all the way here, but do you mind if we put off your lesson for a couple of days? I’m going to have to teach her junior hunt group. You can’t imagine the wailing if I tell them there’s no class today…and that’s just the mothers.” He gestures to the group of women settling into lawn chairs under a nearby tree.

  After six weeks of sitting on the edge of that group—close enough to be polite, but far away enough to avoid engaging much in their conversation—while my niece was in that class, I know too well how these women value their hour of idle gossip, adult conversation, or just sitting still to catch their breath from the rush of managing jobs, kids, husbands, and households. I can’t much blame them.

  “It’s not a problem, Alex. We can reschedule. How can I help?” I ask the question again.

  He looks toward the gaggle of noisy kids gradually migrating from the mounting area to the riding ring, then at the barn entrance. “I can teach this class and the one after it, but Marsh needs help getting up to her house.” He wiggles his fingers as he waves his hand in front of his eyes. “She gets the blurry-vision thing, so she can’t drive herself.”

  “I can do that.” I know I sound overeager but don’t care. I’m filled with an overwhelming need to protect and care for her. Weird. I’m a lousy nurse. The one time my niece Amy developed a fever while staying with me, I fed her ice cream. Something cold should help bring the fever down, right? Wrong. Milk and fever don’t mix, and the kid promptly threw up in the middle of my living-room rug. I had to call my sister to come get her child. Katelynn also cleaned up the puke when I declared I was going to throw the expensive rug out and buy a new one because I was incapable of cleaning up the vomit without adding to it.

  “Are you sure? She’ll need help undressing and getting into bed.” He scrunches up his nose and blushes. Alex is gay but not effeminate, and I almost laugh at his uncharacteristically cute expression. “Harrison always does that for his sister. Marsh isn’t shy, but I am.”

  To my credit, I don’t drool at the prospect of undressing Marsh. She’s ill. This is serious. I offer Alex what I hope is a reassuring, not lecherous, smile. “Not to worry.”

  “Great.” He glances at his watch. “Let me get the class started. That should clear the people and noise away from the barn. Harrison said he still keeps her meds up to date, even though she hasn’t had one of these in a long time. She’ll tell you what she needs, depending on how bad her head is.”

  I wave him off. “I’ve got this. I used to get migraines. I know what to do.”

  Once the students leave the barn, I park my car close to the entrance, get the super-dark wraparound sunglasses I saved from when I’d had Lasix surgery out of my glovebox, and go inside. I pull the huge barn doors closed on the back end, leave the entrance doors open just enough for a person to walk through, and make my way in the semidarkness to the door of the office. I tap very quietly on the door before opening it and sticking my head inside. “Marsh?”

  A groan answers my quiet whisper.

  My eyes are still adjusting to the dark room, but I don’t see her anywhere. A gagging sound comes from the bathroom, where a tiny night light offers a bit of illumination. Another low groan. Missing-person mystery solved. I move quietly around the room, mostly from memory, collecting what I need—the small trash can next to the desk will make an excellent puke bucket for the back floorboard, her usual ball cap that hangs on a peg by the door, an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner, and a bottle of water. Then I approach the small bathroom as quietly as possible.

  “Marsh?”

  “Go away.” Her whisper is more of a plea than a demand, her breath coming in short pants.

  I can see her outline slumped over the toilet and kneel next to her. “I told Alex I’d help you get to your house while he runs your class.”

  “Just leave me.”

  “Nope. Not going to. Give me your hand.”

  “I can’t…I’m going to throw up.” She groans but doesn’t gag. “Please, go.”

  I ignore her, running my hand down her arm to grasp her hand. I pinch the pressure point between her thumb and index finger with one hand and gently place the cold pack on her nape. “I used to have killer migraines, so I can help.”

  We stay there for long minutes before her breathing slows and she sits back against the bathroom vanity. I release my acupressure pinch on her hand. Thank God. My legs are starting to cramp from squatting. I stand to get the blood circulating to my toes again.

  “Thanks. That helped.” I can barely hear her faint admission.

  “Do you think you can make it to my car? I parked right by the barn door. We should try to get you out of here before Alex finishes the class and the kids are swarming the barn again.”

  My eyes have adjusted to the dark enough to see her slow nod, so I offer my hand to help her. She ignores it and uses the vanity to lever herself up. I grab her hand and put the bottle of water in it, then flush the toilet for her. Another slight nod, and then she takes a minute to rinse out her mouth and drink some of the icy water. I hand over the dark glasses and ball cap. “I have some Vicodin in my pocket. But Alex said you have your own medicine at your house. Is there anything here you need to take with you?”

  “Phone.” She takes a few steps, then sways and grabs the bathroom door frame to steady herself. “On the desk.”

  I grab the phone, stuff it into my pocket, and return to pull her arm across my shoulders and wrap mine around her waist. Instead of the protest I expect, she leans heavily on me. “I’ve closed the barn doors, so it’s pretty dark in the corridor, and I parked so you can get right into the back and lie down. The windows are tinted back there, but if the light is still too much, you can cover your eyes with my jacket that’s on the seat.”

  I don’t know if she’s listening or how much she’s absorbing through the pain. I do know I couldn’t make decisions when I was in that kind of agony, so I grab the little trash can as a precaution and guide her out.

  The slow trip up the rutted drive to her house is a series of groans, apologies for hitting potholes, and a gagging sound or two. I’m as relieved as she must be when I finally park at the back entrance to the house.

  “The sun is bright today. Close your eyes and let me guide you inside.” I speak as quietly as possible, and Marsh doesn’t argue when I again slide under her arm to help her into the house.

  “Bedroom,” she mumbles.

  Under any other circumstance, that instruction would have thrilled me, but my libido for once is taking a back seat to an urgent need to relieve her suffering.

  Inside the master suite, a queen-sized, four-poster bed covered with a luxurious Sherpa comforter sits to my right, and two doors are at the other end of the room. I figure one is the bathroom and the other a closet. I help her sit on the side of the bed where, judging from the book and water bottle on the bedside table, she normally sleeps, then kneel to tug her boots and socks off.

  Marsh pulls the cap from her head, and her short-cropped hair sticks up in several directions. I want to reach up and smooth each roguish lock back into place. Quit. The woman is suffering. I can’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses, but her face has gone from pale to chalk white. I grab a small trash bin that’s nearby and push it into her lap just in time. Nothing’s left in her stomach but bile. Strangely enough, I don’t gag with her. I’m too consumed with concern.

  “Where’s your medicine?” God, I hope she can keep a pill down. She’ll probably have to be unconscious before she’ll let me administer a suppository. It’s a little soon in our relationship for that sort of intimacy, no matter what the medical emergency.

  Her head still bowed over the trash can, she pants out instructions. “Medicine cabinet. Syringe, top shelf. Already loaded.”


  I walk carefully on the balls of my feet to the indicated door so my riding boots don’t clomp so loudly against the hardwood floor, then chide myself. The chance is slim she can hear me over her gagging into the trash can.

  A bottle of pills and a pre-loaded syringe are, indeed, on the top shelf when I open the medicine cabinet. I search the drawers of the bathroom vanity and also find some alcohol wipes. It’s been a while, but my college roommate during my sophomore year was diabetic and taught me how to give her insulin shots during my brief flirtation with pursuing a career in medicine. Turns out my flirtation had more to do with a girl in my chemistry class than an actual interest in medicine. More gagging and a groan come from the bedroom. Focus, damn it.

  I soak a washcloth in cold water and hurry back to Marsh. Her gagging apparently is dry heaves—thank God—since the trash can is mostly empty. I gently take it from her and set it on the floor, then hand her the cold washcloth to mop her face. She shivers. This is as bad a migraine as I’ve ever witnessed. Her teeth begin to chatter with chills, which means she’s beginning to run a fever.

  Still wearing my dark glasses, Marsh turns her head toward me when I hold the syringe up and tap it to make sure there’s no air bubble. She begins unbuckling her belt. “Hip,” she says, her voice hoarse from throwing up. She hesitates. “Can you…do it?”

  “Yes. I’ve given shots before.” I catch myself before launching into an explanation. She isn’t in any shape for conversation.

  She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I steady her as she stands and pushes at her riding breeches. “Off,” she says, her teeth clenched against the chills rolling through her body. She’s still giving the orders even though she can hardly stand. I hold the shot at the ready while I use my free hand to peel the stretchy material down her long, leanly muscled legs. Focus, Lauren. Stay focused. Fuck. When I bend to free her feet from the breeches, I find myself eye level with the most perfect bare ass I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a thong. Just kill me now. At least that explains why her skin-hugging breeches never show panty lines.

  Marsh turns and pulls the covers back on her bed, at the same time putting one glorious gluteus maximus perfectly in my strike zone.

  “Brace yourself on the bed and hold still for two seconds,” I say, tearing open the alcohol wipe with one hand and my teeth. I surprise myself at my lack of hesitation. It’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve done this, but I administer the injection like a pro. Funny how a crisis helps you act without the usual burden of overthinking. Well, okay. Helps me act without my usual uncertain analyzing and projection of outcomes. I tear open another wipe with my teeth and swab the puncture mark again for good measure. “Done,” I announce needlessly.

  Marsh doesn’t make a sound but turns slowly to sit and starts to lie down. I drop the spent syringe into the trash can and stop her.

  “Let me take your shirt off so you’ll be more comfortable.”

  She doesn’t reply but lets me slip the cotton polo over her head, careful not to dislodge the dark glasses before I have a chance to close the blinds and darken the room. Shirt off, she eases down onto the bed. That answers my question about whether she wants her sports bra off, too.

  I cover her quickly and hurry to darken the room, then gather a few things to make her more comfortable—an ice pack from the fridge in the therapy room, the Sherpa throw draped over the back of the sofa, and a thick hand towel from the bathroom. Marsh is lying on her back, still shivering. I add the Sherpa throw to the comforter covering her and gently trade the dark glasses for the towel to block out even the faint light seeping through the window blinds.

  “I know you’re cold, but this will help numb the pain,” I whisper, tucking the ice pack under her head at the base of her skull. Then I stand by the bed, uncertain what to do. Marsh’s bedroom decor is rather minimalist—a bed, bedside table, and chest of drawers. There’s no chair for me to sit in and keep vigil, but I’m loath to leave.

  Marsh’s shivering has almost stopped, and her breathing slows and evens out. Whatever cocktail of medicine Harrison had loaded in that syringe is already working. I have no doubt it includes something for nausea, but I leave the small trash can next to the bed anyway.

  I walk as softly as possible to the bedroom door. I could hang out in the living room in case she needs me. Maybe I’ll find a book from her shelves to read. Damn. If I had my laptop, I could work on my book. That thought is barely finished when I find myself toeing off my boots and climbing onto the other side of the bed to gently lie down facing Marsh. She might need something. She is lying on her back. What if she starts throwing up again and is too drugged to turn to her side? I killed one of the characters in my first book by having them choke on their own vomit.

  My writer’s brain is mapping out possibilities when Marsh stirs. She draws her arm closest to me from under the covers, and I grasp her searching hand in case she doesn’t know I’m still here. “What?” I whisper. What does she need? What does she want?

  Her fingers curl around mine, squeeze, then relax without releasing me. A soft sigh escapes from her lips, and after a few long moments, I hear a faint snore.

  I draw the Sherpa throw over her exposed shoulder and arm, and then with fingers still entwined with hers, I close my eyes and relax, too.

  * * *

  I wake, instantly alert, to the quiet murmur of voices and movement next to me. Marsh’s hand is gone from mine, and a handsome man, his resemblance to Marsh unmistakable, is kneeling at her other side. This must be her brother, Harrison, the physician. He’s inserting an IV into the bulging vein in her other arm.

  I raise up on one elbow and mouth a “hello” to Harrison. He nods in return before speaking quietly to Marsh.

  “I’m sure you’re dehydrated from throwing up. These fluids will make you feel better. How’s your nausea?” he asks as he draws up another syringe and lays it on the bedside table.

  “Better.” The strain in Marsh’s faint, slurred response makes me wince.

  He takes a penlight from the requisite black leather satchel at his feet. I didn’t know doctors still carry those. “I need to check your pupils, but I’ll be as quick as I can,” he says, removing the hand towel covering her eyes.

  Marsh squints and groans when he flicks the light over one, then the other, of her eyes. “Equal and responsive,” he says, then reaches for the syringe on the bedside table.

  “I gave her the injection that was in the medicine cabinet,” I whisper to him.

  He smiles. “Lauren, right?”

  I nod.

  “Thanks. I saw the empty in the bin.” He gestures to the trash can. “That was mainly for her nausea and a little something to take the edge off the pain.” He holds up the syringe in his hand and injects its contents into the port on the IV line. “This will put her out until the migraine subsides.”

  Marsh’s hand that isn’t hooked to the IV opens, palm up, and moves a few inches across the bed toward me. I immediately entwine my fingers with hers at the unspoken request and wonder what the gesture costs this proud and intensely independent woman.

  “Thanks.” The whisper is so soft, it could have been a sigh. But I hear it. I feel it in the fingers that are squeezing mine. I open my mouth to assure her I’ve been in her place before and understand, but her hand relaxes, then goes limp as the medicine Harrison injected into the IV port takes hold. I don’t care that he’s watching. I give in to my impulse, swallow the assurances she won’t hear, and instead stroke her now-slack face with the back of my fingers. I’ve never been so intrigued, so fascinated, so drawn to a woman before.

  * * *

  “Surf and turf for Harrison, a ribeye for me, and for you…” Alex holds a Styrofoam meal container aloft. “Grilled salmon, sour-cream potatoes, and fresh broccoli.”

  I frown from my too-comfortable seat on Marsh’s leather sofa. “I don’t remember ordering dinne
r.”

  “Did I guess wrong?” he asks, puzzlement written all over his face.

  “No. It sounds delicious.” People ordering for me is a pet peeve, but I can see this is a sweet gesture from Alex, not a controlling one. Besides, I was with Marsh and not available to consult about menu items. “You didn’t have to.”

  Harrison dismisses my protest with a wave of his hand. “Come on. I owe you for helping my sister.” He sets out napkins and silverware for three at the L-shaped island that separates the kitchen from the living area.

  “You don’t owe me anything. Like I told Alex, I used to get migraines, so I know how painful they can be and what to do to cope with them.”

  Alex shoots Harrison an exasperated look. “Get some plates, Harrison. We are not going to eat out of the cartons like cavemen when we have company.”

  I chuckle. Alex’s masculine demeanor around the barn becomes a little swishy in Harrison’s presence. He smiles at me. “You saved my ass today.”

  “And I’m quite fond of that ass,” Harrison says, giving Alex’s butt a squeeze before obediently opening a cabinet and retrieving three plates. “Especially in those tight riding breeches.”

  Alex gives him a quick smooch for the compliment, then turns back to me. “I could have never concentrated on that kiddie class if I had to worry about Marsh blowing an aneurysm while puking her stomach up in the barn office.”

  “Thank you. I needed that picture in my head while I try to eat dinner.” Harrison’s chiding is warm with affection.

  “Please, you see much worse than that every day, then wash your hands and eat a sandwich in your office.”

  I like Alex already, and it’s hard not to like Harrison, since he looks almost like Marsh’s twin. But I really like them now as a couple. I wonder how long they’ve been together because they’re like a vaudeville act or an old married couple finishing each other’s thoughts.

  “Dinner is served,” Harrison says, sweeping his arm in the air over the place settings.