When my shudders conceal the laughter I wasn’t anticipating to rumble in my chest at any stage within the next six months, my thumb that’s been sanding the wooden windowsill picks up an unusual pattern in the grain.
I’ve been sitting by the only window in the cabin for the past three-plus hours. A million thoughts have raced through my head, but only one has remained,I should be dead.
By a deliberate act or from accidentally rolling over a set of spikes not earmarked for me, I don’t know, but the more I try to unearth the truth, the more confused I become.
I own nothing of value, not even Cedric classed my time as valuable, so I truly don’t believe the spikes were for me. But since it took hours for me to reach that conclusion and several feet of snow, I won’t be able to expand on my findings until this blizzard blows over.
I’m trapped more now than I was when pinned behind the steering wheel of my car, but once again, the thought doesn’t terrify me as much as it should. I’ve lived my life a million miles an hour the past ten-plus years. I didn’t want to be accused of slacking off, so I worked relentlessly to prove every promotion I’ve been granted was given purely on performance instead of my friendship with the founder of Ravenshoe Private Hospital. I commenced work before the sun rose and didn’t finish until it had long rested, and although I love my job, I would be a liar if I said my schedule wasn’t exhausting.
I had no clue I was on the verge of burnout until I spent three hours watching snow fall from a sky without an ounce of guilt fettering my features. The stranger probably thinks I’m the laziest person on the planet. Although his presence is forever felt, while I wallowed like a heartbroken idiot, he chopped wood, stacked the fireplace, and removed the vomit from the bedding.
It only took seven minutes and thirty-three seconds for him to clean up the mess I made. I plan to get over Cedric’s betrayal even quicker than that. You can’t be heartbroken when the person you’re mourning didn’t own a single piece of your heart, much less all of it.
Forever curious—and sick of commiserating over someone not worthy of my time—I bob down to take in the detail in the wood I’m sure is a knot.
Shock isn’t the only thing that takes hold when I realize the indents are a set of initials. Excitement takes hold as well.
“JR…” I mumble to myself as my thumb traces the cursive J at the front of the short two-letter carving.
With my mind more focused on the craftmanship of the initials than how they were placed into the wood, the rough edge grates the tender skin on my thumb. Expletives rip from my throat when the collision awards me with a nasty splinter.
I stand to stomp out my frustration, forgetting that my foot is more damaged than my thumb. It buckles under my weight, and the pressure of its fold pops the last couple of stitches holding the torn skin together.
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I just…” Before I can finish my reply, the man who’s been eyeing me from afar the past several hours scoops me into his arms and marches us into the kitchen.
After plonking my backside onto the thick chunk of wood that makes up the dining table, he hands me the unripe banana I refused to eat earlier before he searches for something in a set of drawers next to the empty kitchen sink.
I should be endeavoring to remove the splinter from my thumb, but my curiosity is too high to discount. My thoughts were so focused on myself the past several hours, I missed several indicators as to the stranger’s identity.
Although faint, JR is carved in the far-right corner of the dining table, the leg of the rocking chair, and in the wave of the wooden counter in the kitchen. His name is everywhere, but just likeWhere’s Wally, it didn’t stick out like a sore thumb until I found the very first one.
Now I can’t miss it.
It’severywhereI look.
The stranger stops cleaning the dust off a sewing needle with his shirt when I murmur, “JR?” I wait for his eyes to lock with mine before asking, “Are you JR?”
When his brows stitch, confused as to how I unearthed his identity, I nudge my head to the faded engraving etched into the kitchen counter. “It’s on the counter, the rocking chair, and under the windowsill.” A second unexpected giggle bubbles in my chest when I blabber out, “And now that the fog in my head is clearing, I’m reasonably sure it was engraved in the vanity sink in the bathroom as well.” Since he doesn’t deny my claim, I whisper, “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re JR?”
His expression is gruff, but no number of fine lines can hide the truth in his eyes. “Is JR your nickname or your actual name?” Niceties are a thing of the past when he breathes heavily out of his nose before he snatches up my hand and careens the needle toward my thumb. “Whoa. Hold up! You can’t just jab a rusty needle into someone’s skin. You need to sterilize it before mentally preparing the patient for the operation they’re about to face.”
JR’s scoff is silent, but I’m aware of its existence since the hot breath it’s delivered with hits my exposed knees. I’m back to wearing a shirt as a dress since I slipped out of my damp-from-the-snow clothes within a minute of JR stacking the fire. He built up the flames so well clothes are more an option than a necessity.
“Scoff all you like, JR…” his nostrils flare when I refer to him by his name, “… but splinters hurt like a bitch, so until you give me some form of pain relief, the shard of wood is staying in my thumb.”
Blood doesn’t bother me, but I hate pain. I have no tolerance for it whatsoever.
When JR slants his head before dropping his eyes to my feet dangling over the edge of the table, I swallow the brick that suddenly lodged itself in my throat. Even a novice medic can tell the once-again gaping wound in my foot will need more than half a dozen stitches to close it. The dissection of a splinter will seem like child’s play compared to the help my foot needs.
After taking a couple of moments to think up a better plan, then surrendering to the idea that I’m at JR’s mercy, I say, “Pass me my medical bag. There could be something in there that’ll take the edge of the pain.”
I haven’t practiced medicine on patients for almost two years now, but with my private cell on Isaac’s speed dial list and his wife and four children his number one priority, I have a range of goodies in my bag—even a drug patent that’s set to hit the market at the end of this year.
They’re calling the breakthrough medicine ‘Viagra for Women.’ Dryness and a wailing libido will be a thing of the past within an hour of taking a little pink pill. Even if the guy is a dud, you areguaranteedto come. Just hitting the speed bump in the driveway of the Lancaster winter estate a little too fast almost set me off. It’s the stuff of magic, and I was hopeful it would re-spark the connection Cedric and I had when we commenced dating.
It turns out all he needed was a newer model.
I stop internally whining about how much of a fool I am when JR returns front and center. Instead of handing me my medical bag he’s clasping for dear life, he thrusts a brown bottle my way, then grunts like he’s serving me a three-course meal.
