A Last Resort

by Brenda Sinclair

  “See you in a few minutes,” Lyndon called as he walked toward the garage.

  “No rush. It will take awhile to boil the water.” Emma watched him go. Those jeans fit perfectly in all the right places. He really was the ideal guy. Handsome to a fault. Kind-hearted, easygoing, considerate. This trip had turned into much more than she’d expected. And she wasn’t thinking about her success with that troublesome Word document, either.

  Emma filled the Dutch oven with water and set it on the burner to boil, catching herself smiling as she worked. She never would have guessed this arrangement would succeed so well. They’d agreed to stay out of each other’s way. To do their own thing. And they’d concentrated on their individual endeavors without tripping over each other while working toward fulfilling their own goals. She only hoped the situation would remain the status quo.

  She poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and sipped it while she collected the pasta and pasta sauce from the pantry and took the grated pizza cheese package out of the fridge. Garlic toast would be a good idea, she decided, as one hand itched and she scratched it a couple of times. Before she could dig the French bread out of the pantry, her other hand started to itch also. Soon both hands had turned an ugly red color and one blister appeared.

  “What the heck is going on?” she muttered.

  Chapter 6

  Emma startled when Lyndon wandered into the kitchen. She hadn’t heard him return to the cabin. “What’s going on with what?” he muttered, grabbing a beer out of the fridge.

  He’d obviously arrived in time to hear her comment. “There’s something wrong here,” Emma muttered, examining her hands and scratching the ugly, itchy rash.

  Lyndon leaned over and took a peek. “Oh, crap. Let me see that.” He set the beer down on the countertop and looked closer.

  “What’s wrong with my hands?” she whispered.

  He grimaced. “I think you touched poison ivy or something. That’s got to itch like crazy.”

  “It does.” Emma rubbed one hand with the other.

  “No, stop. That’ll make it worse.” Lyndon guided her over to the sink. “Stand here and don’t move,” he ordered before he raced down the hallway. “And don’t scratch.”

  “Where are you going?” she called, receiving no reply.

  A few minutes later, Lyndon returned with an armful of things from the medicine cabinet and her bathrobe.

  “What the heck are you doing?”

  “You need to get out of those clothes and wash your hands with soap and water.” Lyndon set everything down on the counter. “Where are your boots?”

  “I took them off at the back door. Why?”

  “Good. They’ll need to be washed off later. You probably stepped on some plants also.” Lyndon reached for the bottom of her woolen tunic. “I’m going to lift this over your head, hopefully without touching your face at all.”

  “No you’re not!” she exclaimed.

  He heaved a sigh. “Are you wearing a bra?”

  “Yes.” She managed a squeaky reply.

  He nodded. “Then think of it as a bikini top.”

  Before she could argue further, he’d slipped her tunic off over her head and she stood there in her lacy black bra.

  “Very pretty. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “Passed embarrassed a minute ago,” Emma scoffed. “Into humiliated and working toward total mortification.”

  Lyndon smiled and strode into the laundry room attached to the kitchen and returned a few seconds later. “That’s in the washer. Next your jeans.” He reached out his hand.

  “For Pete’s sake. I can do it myself.” She unlooked the button, wiggled out of her designer jeans, and attempted to thrust them into his hands.

  He shook his head. “Careful, or you’ll have me red and itching also.” He clasped the jeans by the inside pocket material using his fingertips and carried them into the laundry room. He returned again. “Your socks might be okay since your shoes covered them.”

  “No, I’m not taking chances. Get them off me.” She lifted her feet one at a time and watched him carefully remove her red, heart-patterned socks. They followed everything else into the washer. She couldn’t believe she was standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a lacy black bra and matching bikini briefs. “Can I put that robe on now?”

  “Nope. Not until we wash your hands thoroughly first.” Lyndon filled the kitchen sink with warm water and added some dish soap. “We need to get the oils off you the best we can. Then I have calamine lotion and I even found a cortisone cream in the medicine cabinet. Someone else might have done this to themselves before.”

  Emma’s face warmed while Lyndon donned the pair of yellow rubber gloves he dug out from under the kitchen sink. For several minutes, he washed both of her hands clear up to her elbows. The man believed in thoroughness, if nothing else. Finally, he fetched a hand towel out of the half-bath off the kitchen and dried her hands. They appeared red and sore and Emma cringed. What had she done to herself?

  “Now for the cream.” After drying the rubber gloves and tossing the towel in the washer, Lyndon donned them again to doctor her tenderly and already the itching subsided with the cooling medication.

  “That feels better.” She heaved a sigh. “Thank you so much. Can I put the robe on now?”

  “Sure.” He wiped off the gloves with a paper towel and then tossed them back under the sink. He carefully helped her slip her arms into the sleeves while avoiding contact with the medication on her hands. He tied the belt for her and smiled. “Almost done,” he announced, grabbing a pair of socks off the counter.

  “What are those for?” Emma inquired while Lyndon unfolded the pair of white tube socks. “My feet aren’t cold.”

  “Not for your feet. For your hands, so you won’t accidently scratch the rash. Unless you’ve got some gloves you can wear.”

  “Only a pair of pricy faux fur-lined leather ones Rachael bought me for Christmas last year. And I’m not getting this medicine smeared in them. But socks? Are you serious?” she scoffed. “I promise I won’t scratch.”

  “That’s what everyone says.” He chuckled as he slipped one sock onto her left hand and then the other sock onto her right hand. “Guess I’m making dinner.”

  “I can do it,” she argued, running a couple scenarios through her mind how she’d accomplish it without full use of her fingers. She required time alone in the kitchen to regain her composure after standing practically naked in front of him for the past half hour. He’d seemed fine working on her hands with her standing there in her underwear, but she’d never been more embarrassed in her life… half-naked and silently scolding herself for her carelessness while on their walk.

  “Sure you can.” Lyndon chuckled and guided her toward one of the barstools. “I’ll pour you another glass of wine and you can sit at the island and talk to me.” He grabbed her wine glass using the paper towel and put it in the dishwasher, and then poured her another glass of wine, untouched by poison ivy hands.

  “This is crazy.” Emma settled onto the seat and resisted the urge to pout like a three-year-old. He handed her the refilled wine glass. Somehow she’d find a way with socked hands to reach the glass to her lips; he wasn’t doing it for her. “I bet it happened when I went into that thick tree area and searched for Jake’s ball.”

  “That would be my guess. You and Jake went in but I didn’t.” Lyndon glanced at his spaniel and poured kibble into the dog’s dish. “You’d better get a bath, too, buddy. Right after you eat your dinner.”

  “Go ahead. The pasta will wait.”

  “Where’s your hoodie that you put Jake’s ball in the pocket?” Lyndon stood waiting for his dog to finish the meal. “I’ll toss that ball in the garbage since it’s probably full of oil from the poison ivy, and he’s got a half dozen of the darn things. Then I’ll throw the hoodie into the washer.”

  “I hung it on a hook by the back door.” Emma dropped her head into her sock-covered hands. “I’ll sit here
sipping wine, suffering in humiliation.”

  Lyndon chuckled. “It’s not that bad. Hopefully, we caught it early enough. Within a week or so you should be good as new.”

  “A week!” Emma groaned and waved her socked hands at him. “How am I going to survive like this for a week?”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “Oh, no! How am I going to type?” she exclaimed, hearing the horror in her voice. “I can’t spend a week without writing. I’ll be so far behind.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” Lyndon and Jake headed down the hallway to the bathroom.

  “There’s a pair of rubber gloves under the sink,” she called, having used them this morning to clean the hallway bathroom.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Emma closed her eyes. At least, Lyndon hadn’t insisted on bathing all of her. How on earth would she type with hands affected by a case of poison ivy? She hated those dictate programs that typed words for you. They were never as accurate as she wanted. She didn’t even have one downloaded on her laptop, and with limited use of her hands, she was hooped. Plain and simple.

  Rachael was never going to believe this. Worse yet, how would Emma break the news to her? She couldn’t explain that Lyndon had cared for her without letting the garage secret out of the bag. She needed to keep this unfortunate turn of events to herself. And wallow in completely unproductive misery for an entire week.

  Could things get any worse?

  * * *

  Lyndon waited until Emma dozed off on the sofa in the family room after dinner, sharing a fluffy white blanket with Jake at her feet, before he stepped out onto the patio to think. If he had any hopes of sleeping tonight, he needed to get Emma out of his mind.

  He enjoyed their day together too much for his own good. Walking in nature while talking, sharing ideas and information about their jobs and their homes. Conversing about friends and notable milestones in their lives. He’d gotten to know her better and he really liked her as a person and as a new friend. For some reason, they both ended up here at the same moment as if meeting each other had been their destiny, arranged by some quirk of fate or some coincidence in time. He certainly wasn’t complaining. Since his divorce became final, he hadn’t met any other woman who intrigued him enough to even initiate a dinner date. Emma had him thinking perhaps another relationship might be doable one day.

  And tending to Emma’s poison ivy rash had proven much too enjoyable. What kind of man would think such a thing? But touching her soft skin sent thrills from his fingertips throughout his entire body. He realized how much he missed touching a woman, even holding a soft feminine hand. Seeing her standing in her lacy underthings and looking so vulnerable had torn at his heart. The desire to protect someone as fragile as she appeared had almost swamped him. Something he hadn’t experienced often in life, and certainly not since adopting the poor abused Jake and providing him with a safe and secure forever home.

  Watching Emma’s hazel eyes fill with tears as he ministered to her itchy, red rash had almost torn his heart apart. He forced himself to remain nonchalant and indifferent, or he would have wrapped her in his arms and let her cry until his shirt became soaked with her tears. He sympathized with her exasperation, realizing she couldn’t type with her hands covered in the socks providing a necessary protective covering and knowing she’d fall behind in her work because of it, jeopardizing her deadline. Worse still, she couldn’t complain to Rachael without her editor becoming alarmed that Emma had to cope with the setback alone, not knowing he’d been here all along.

  He understood Emma’s frustration. Had something happened to delay his progress with the workshop and garage project, he’d be devastated. He detested missing project deadlines, and he’d often hired extra crews to complete work on time for customers when promised.

  He glanced up at the starlit sky, feeling himself a small speck in the universe. A brisk wind rustled the remaining leaves in the deciduous trees and blew through the pines and spruce in the woods across the backyard. Branches on the looming evergreens swayed and the moonlight created black patterns on the lawn, the moving shadows resembling long-limbed demons creeping around the cabin. He chuckled at his vivid imagination. Instead of carpentering, maybe he should become an author. Might extend the life of Jake’s hearing, if nothing else.

  He returned to the problem most troubling him tonight. He couldn’t do much to help ease Emma’s itching except keep her hands covered after applying the medicated cream. He’d drive her into town in a couple days if the rash worsened, insisting a doctor examine her. Lyndon doubted a stay at the Maskosis Hospital would be necessary but the facility was there if needed. He finished his coffee and wandered back into the cabin, locking the door behind him.

  After leaving his mug in the kitchen, Lyndon found Emma still sound asleep on the sofa. He scooped her up in his arms, plush cover and all, and carried her into her bedroom. With Emma’s head resting on his chest, a strawberry scent caught his attention. Was that her shampoo? He gently settled her on the bed and then covered her with the fuzzy blanket. Jake attempted to jump up beside her but Lyndon snagged his collar and wagged a finger at the dog. The canine caught his meaning and slunk out of the room, turning in the direction of Lyndon’s guest room. Lyndon stood watching her sleep for a short while; she looked so innocent and vulnerable with her hands wrapped and tucked under her chin. He leaned over and gently kissed her forehead before he tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  He couldn’t be certain of Emma’s opinion of him. Perhaps she merely tolerated his presence in her life. She hadn’t resisted him when he’d held her hand or touched her hair then her face earlier today during their walk. If she wasn’t sharing similar feelings for him, then he’d be wise to finish this carpentry job and return to his own life. Whatever that proved to be. And he wouldn’t know what the future held in store for him until he resolved the most important decision of his life.

  Chapter 7

  Emma fought back tears, seated at the breakfast table the next morning. She couldn’t recall crawling onto her bed, and the only explanation caused her body to warm all over. Her last conscious memory of last night involved snuggling with Jake on the sofa while Lyndon loaded the dishwasher in the kitchen. Her cabinmate must have discovered she’d fallen asleep and he hadn’t wanted to leave her on the sofa all night. So, he’d carried her into her room and covered her with the plush blanket from the family room. She couldn’t fault him for his thoughtfulness.

  Lyndon carried two plates of food into the dining room and set one in front of her. “Nothing as fancy as you would have cooked, but it will keep us alive until lunch,” he teased.

  She nodded, blinking back her tears. She refused to succumb to weakness, especially in front of Lyndon. He’d been more helpful already than she ever could have expected. She wouldn’t thank him for his kindness by appearing ungrateful and feeling sorry for herself. “This looks delicious.” Jake flopped down beside her and rested his head on her right foot, providing proof he wasn’t begging. She appreciated the show of support and sympathy.

  “Two fried eggs and toast. Rather difficult to mess that up,” Lyndon reasoned. “Is your coffee mug empty?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m fine.” Before he offered to feed her, she slid her cutlery toward her with one socked hand. After a bit of maneuvering she clasped the fork between her fingers hidden in the sock, and dug into the eggs, not realizing how hungry she was. At least, she hadn’t lost her appetite as part of this ordeal. He’d even spread strawberry jam on her toast. Her favorite. Or had he reasoned that from the jar she’d brought and placed on the top shelf in the fridge? By cutting her toast into squares and using her fork, she’d be able to manage.

  “Thank you so much for taking over the cooking.” She grimaced, acknowledging another element of guilt that the rash added to her already long list. Lyndon would soon be spending days tending her, doing all the cooking, caring for Jake, and working in the g
arage on his project. She, on the other hand, would be sitting doing nothing like a knot on a log, with her hands trapped in socks, accomplishing zip, zilch, nada. Her eyes filled with tears again just thinking about it.

  “Don’t cry. This won’t be forever,” he whispered softly.

  She blinked furiously. “I know. It’s just…”

  “You feel hopeless, useless, frustrated, angry… am I getting close?” He smiled at her.

  “All of the above.” How did he do that? Reading her thoughts, sensing her feelings without hesitation? He truly was a forceful but sensitive man.

  “The way I see it, your biggest handicap is your inability to type.” Lyndon finished breakfast and set his plate to the side. He rested his arms on the table and tented his fingers. “So I’m offering my services for the days you’re unable to write. You dictate and I’ll type.”

  “Absolutely not!” she exclaimed, the words exploding from her with greater force than she’d intended. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the offer and that would serve my needs in the best way possible, but it would also set you back a week’s progress on the workshop.”

  He shrugged. “True. But I don’t have a deadline set in stone. You do.”

  “Not really. Rachael wants the manuscript as soon as it’s ready, but she’ll understand this delay.”

  “Not necessary,” he replied, shaking his head. “No reason we can’t make this work.”

  Emma stared at him, barely comprehending his suggestion. She couldn’t be more appreciative of his offer to help, but she imagined days of dictating at turtle speed while he plodded away utilizing the hunt and peck method of typing. The ordeal would drive her crazy. Besides, he’d already taken over all the cooking; she couldn’t ask for more.

  “It’s all right. I can dictate into my recorder and then transcribe the chapters later when my hands are healed.”