CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN MORNINGbroke, I had no desire to get out of bed. The dried residue on my stomach reminded me that last night I’d had an orgasm. A knock-down, drag-out, oh my God, what the fuck orgasm. It had been the highlight of my night, obviously. But now sunshine peeked into my windows, and I needed to get up and move. So much to do today. There were wild brook trout to catch that would stock one of my freezers for the upcoming winter, seeds to be collected so that next year I could have sunflowers again, canning to do so the vegetables I harvested would help feed me through the long winter ahead. And a man I never got the chance to talk to would need me to start missing him now, because he’d be in New York soon.
A quick shower and a round of touching the items in my house, because I needed the grounding, and maybe there was a chance I could face the day. The air was cool, and a foggy mist had settled over the area. Chances were good that it would burn off by late morning, but there had been days it stuck around because of the higher elevation. Today needed to not be one of those. I had to keep busy, occupy my mind as much as possible. Any distraction would give me time to think, and I definitely didn’t need that.
The stream would be my first destination. Having it on the property was one of the reasons this plot of land suited my needs perfectly. Fed by the lake in Ash Hills, there would be smallmouth bass, brook trout, and whitefish at various times throughout the year, and my love of fish made it ideal for me. After collecting my equipment, I hiked down to the closest point and spent the next ninety minutes doing my best to bring home some good eats.
Making my way back to the house with a stringer that held eight fish, I stupidly checked my watch. It said 9:46 a.m., and that caused an ache in my chest, because today at ten, there would be no Charlie. No greeting from over the fence or requests for lemonade. Today would be peaceful and quiet, the way it always had been. I swallowed down the lump in my throat, wondering why that didn’t hold the appeal it always had.
After entering the house, I stored the fish in the refrigerator to be dealt with as the sun started to set. That would allow me to work in the yard while enough light let me see clearly.
The sunflowers were my next stop. I gathered all the seeds I could, separating them into three piles. One pile would be used to plant next year, one would be roasted, because they were delicious, and the last—and largest—pile would be used for my birds to help them survive, should the winter turn exceptionally harsh. As the last flower came down and I shucked the seeds, I heard a strange noise from down the road. To my ears it almost sounded as though someone was… grunting. I stood a few more moments, until I saw a sight that had me almost crying.
“Your lemonade fresh?” Charlie asked, his voice pitched low enough that it sent shivers up my spine.
Teresa stood behind the wheelchair, pushing for all she was worth. Her face was beet red, her breathing labored. But the only thing I truly saw was Charlie. He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I sputtered to answer.
“Yes. Well, no. I mean, I made some the day you… that day. But I have a pitcher.”
Teresa stopped outside my gate. “I could really go for a glass,” she panted. “This bastard is heavy.”
Charlie turned and looked at her. “Why don’t you go back to your truck? I’ll call you when we’re done here.”
She stood, hands on her hips, and glared at him. “You’re kidding,” she huffed. “I just pushed you up a freaking hill the size of Everest. Don’t I get to catch my breath first?”
“Teresa,” Charlie said softly.
“No, I—she can…,” I stuttered.
“She’ll be okay, Matt.” He looked up at Teresa. “Please.”
She snorted. “Fine.” Then she turned on her heel and stormed away.
“May I come in?” Charlie asked.
I rushed to the gate and pulled it open for him. He wheeled himself in, though rather unsteadily. “Your sister is upset,” I mentioned.
“She’ll get over it,” he insisted, rolling up to the stairs on the porch. “I’m more concerned about you.”
He sounded unhappy. When I got to where he sat and saw his crinkled brow and stormy eyes, there could be no doubt. He was livid. Before I could say anything, he pointed his finger at me. His hands were shaking, and he narrowed his gaze.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “You come to my hospital room, hug me, and then you bolt without even telling me why.”
His skin had gone nearly purple in his rage, and I took a few steps back, suddenly grateful for the fact that he had come in a wheelchair and the stairs were nearby.
“Matt,” he snarled. “I asked you a question.”
“You were leaving,” I answered, my voice trembling. “I didn’t see the point in waiting.”
“No, that’s not it.” He leaned forward and pinned me with a glare like I’d never seen before. He studied my face; then, when it seemed he’d gotten the answer he wanted, he sat back again.
It struck me at that moment. He wasn’t angry. He’d been afraid.
“I saw your face before you left. You were terrified. Do you know how that made me feel? You ran out, and my sister and two nurses had to hold me down to keep me from following you. I demanded she go and bring you back, because I needed to know why you were upset. She said you got on the elevator and she couldn’t catch you.”
He was still afraid. He gripped the chair, his knuckles white. His body shook, and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. What I had thought to be anger hadn’t been that at all. He was worried about me.
“I tried calling, but you wouldn’t answer.” His breath was coming heavy now. “When I talked to Clay, he said he’d dropped you off at home, so at least I knew you were safe. You have no idea what thoughts were going through my head.”
