by Norah Wilson
For a moment, he thought she’d meant something more.
“I’ll stoke the fire and fill the wood box by the stove before I leave.”
“Don’t feel you have to.”
“I’d do it for anyone. I’ll fix you something to eat too.” She looked at him in that no-arguing way. “I’m guessing you brought groceries?”
He pointed to his pack on the counter. “There are a few things in there. Eggs. Bread. Butter. Peanut butter and jam. There are also some canned goods in the cupboard. Nothing fancy or fresh. All non-perishable.”
She nodded. “I’ll fix something.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I’m going to.”
“Even though I’m a son of a bitch?”
She looked at him coolly. “Yeah, even though.”
“Well, while you’re feeling so generous, do you think you could help me get to the washroom?”
“God, of course. I’m sorry.” She looked so contrite, he resisted the urge to needle her about missing an opportunity to punish him. He knew it wasn’t maliciousness on her part. She’d just been completely focused on treating his injury. “I should have offered right away. I guess I make a better doctor than a nurse. Let’s get you out to the outhouse.”
“No need. We have a proper bathroom now.” He nodded to the rear of the cabin. “The extra bedroom at the back.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Indoor plumbing? Does that mean you have potable water?”
“It does.”
“Now there’s an improvement a girl can appreciate.” She moved in close. “Okay, let’s get you up.”
He flipped the lever to fold the foot support away. She helped him get to his feet, then tucked her shoulder under his arm on his injured side and slid her right arm around his back. He looped an arm over her shoulder. His ankle throbbed like a bitch just from standing up, but as he stood there with her strong body pressed to his, he suddenly didn’t mind so much. God, her hair smelled good. She smelled good. To feel her solid warmth next to him, he could almost forget the pain.
Almost.
By the time he made it to the bathroom and back to the chair, his whole body had broken into a fine sweat. How could an ankle that wasn’t even broken hurt so damned much?
He managed not to embarrass himself by yelping as she helped him settle back onto the chair. As soon as his foot was elevated again, she went to the small utility closet in the kitchen and came back with the mop bucket, which she plunked down beside the chair.
He lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Okay, I admit that hurt more than I thought it was going to, but I’m not about to throw up.”
“That’s not what it’s for. I just figured you might want to save yourself that trek to the bathroom for a while. At least until the ankle is a bit better.”
Oh, God. Could he feel more useless? “I think I can manage the bathroom.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, but made no move to retrieve the bucket. “So, if the water pump works, I’m guessing there must be electricity to power those new appliances in the kitchen?”
“Yup. All the electricity we can use, courtesy of a windmill up on the ridge.”
“That must have cost your father a pretty penny.”
“It wasn’t cheap.” A novel, bird-friendly design, it had cost a small fortune, but Jace had paid for it, not his father. Since he was pretty much the only Picard still using the place with any regularity, he figured it was only right that he should foot the bill.
She looked around the rustic interior. “I like the improvements, but I’m glad Wayne had the good judgment not to modernize it entirely. High end cabinets and granite countertops just wouldn’t have fit.”
Since Jace had commissioned the changes, he supposed he could take that as a compliment. “Yeah, I guess it’s not really rusticating if it isn’t rustic, huh?”
“Exactly. Now let’s see what you’ve got to make a meal from.”
From his vantage point, he watched as she busied herself in the tiny kitchen area. Even with the addition of the refrigerator and the electric range, it wasn’t exactly a chef’s dream. The counter boasted a few covered canisters—tea bags, coffee, sugar, salt, and powdered coffee whitener—on the left side of the single sink. Heavy cast iron frying pans that had seen a good many trout over the years hung by hooks on the back wall. The shallow cupboards hid more heavy pots, some utensils, and an assortment of unmatched dishes.
She made herself at home.
He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle clatter of her working away. His ankle was feeling better already. The smell of butter melting in a pan wafted toward him, and he inhaled deeply, imagining the slow sizzle of it.
Slow? Could a sizzle be slow? He listened a moment longer and decided, yes, it could. It was really slow. Kind of nice.
He felt himself drifting, and that felt right. He could still feel pain in his ankle, but it was muted, not so sharp or urgent. He could feel the compression of the bandage too. The bandage Ember had applied so carefully, despite her deep aversion for him.
He went back to listening to the sizzle of whatever she’d put in the frying pan. Onion and garlic, from the smell of it.
Then he heard something foggy and funny.
It was Ember calling his name. He opened his eyes, and there she was holding the half-empty bottle of vodka, asking how much he’d had to drink.
Just a couple of decent toddies, not a half-bottle.
The answer formed in his mind, but he couldn’t seem to push it out. It was like someone found the gravity control and cranked it up. He was sinking, sinking into the cushions. Or maybe the cushions were rising up, buoying him against this super-gravity. His lids drifted closed.
Again, she asked him about the booze. How much had he had? When did he have his last drink? He tried once more to answer her, but the words stayed locked in his head. With a sigh, he surrendered to the weight and the welcoming darkness.
Chapter 3
WAY TO go, Dr. Standish. Give a man with God only knew how much alcohol in his system a freaking narcotic. Great start to your career.
She lifted his wrist and took his pulse. It was on the slow side, but steady. Still, she found herself holding her own breath as she counted his respirations. They were reassuringly normal...until she factored in that he was sleeping. Ventilation rates in a sleeping patient would normally be significantly more rapid and shallow than wakeful breathing. Jace’s respirations were shallow, but not exactly rapid.
Crap.
She looked again at the bottle. A standard 750 mL fifth, it was now approximately half full. But unless his drinking habits had changed radically, she doubted he’d brought it with him. He’d never been much of a drinker. He’d probably found the bottle in the cupboard while searching for painkillers and drank some to take the edge off his pain. There were no empty bottles to be found, as a search of the trash disclosed. He certainly hadn’t appeared intoxicated. The question was, how much had he drunk? Both narcotics and alcohol tended to slow breathing, through different processes, and when taken together, could be big trouble.
She bit her lip, counting the ways she’d screwed-up. She’d asked him about allergies, but hadn’t thought to ask if he’d had any alcohol. Stupid. True, he hadn’t smelled of alcohol, even when she’d helped him to the bathroom. But this was vodka, not bourbon or scotch or any of the more aromatic stuff. He could have drunk quite a bit without smelling up the place. And he’d been in pain for hours. She should have at least considered the possibility he might have self-medicated with booze.
Then, instead of just giving him some of the ibuprofen, she’d handed him one of her Tramadols. A freaking narcotic!
Of course, ibuprofen and alcohol wasn’t a good combination either, given the increased risk of a stomach bleed.
Inexcusable. That was the only word for it. She’d been anxious to finish up and get the hell out of there, yet her conscience demanded she ease his pain. If she were honest about it, she
’d given him the narcotic more to expedite her departure than anything else. And if it weren’t for the alcohol in his system, it would have worked. He’d be in good shape, pain-wise, but conscious. She could have whipped up a meal for him, stoked the fire, brought in extra wood, and left the meds within easy reach, along with a written schedule reminding him when to take the alternating doses.
But now she had to babysit him until he woke, to make sure he didn’t suffer any harm from her mistake.
So much for a quick exit.
Her mind went back to worrying about the drug/alcohol combination. There were so many variables. How much had he drunk? When had he drunk it? Did he have anything on his stomach? How quickly would he metabolise it?
She looked at her watch. Okay, Danny had called looking for a runner about two hours ago. She’d had to scoot into town to fetch the stuff, then she’d sat down with her brothers for lunch. Add on the time for them to mobilize and get out to the parking lot, plus fifty minutes’ hike through the woods. Yeah, at least two hours.
Chances were the first thing Jace did after calling the pharmacy was to start the fire so he wouldn’t be cold as he waited. Then he’d have poured that drink. She glanced around. The only dish out of the cupboard was a coffee mug. She lifted it for closer inspection. It did smell slightly of alcohol, and was that a seed? Yes, a lemon seed. She’d seen a half a squeezed lemon in the garbage, and the other half sat out on the counter. She put the mug to her mouth and took the last sip of the clear fluid.
Definitely lemon in there, but lots of honey too. He must have made a hot toddy. That might not be so bad.
Of course, he might have had a couple of belts of straight vodka from that mug before he’d sat down with the toddy.
Argh. All this speculation was getting her nowhere. Only Jace could tell her how much he’d had to drink, and he wasn’t currently talking. Maybe she could wake him...
She leaned over him to grasp his shoulders. They felt strong under her grip. Familiar. Warm. The urge to pull her hands away battled with the equally strong desire to leave them there. The latter won, but only because she needed him awake.
“Jace.” She shook him gently. “Jace, can you hear me?”
He mumbled something mostly incoherent. But then she caught a few words: “Later…Angel.”
Ember snatched her hands back from his shoulders as if they’d been singed.
Angel. She hadn’t heard that particular endearment in forever. But it was no excuse to react like a scalded cat. She was a doctor, dammit.
She grasped his shoulders again and gave him another shake. “Jace, I need you to wake up,” she commanded. “I need to know how much of that vodka you drank.”
His eyes flickered open and he frowned. “Ember?”
“How many drinks of that vodka did you have, Jace? One? Two? A bunch?”
“Jus’ two.” His eyes drifted closed again and his frown smoothed. He was sleeping again.
Okay, two drinks. That wasn’t so bad.
She checked his pulse again. Slow, but resting-slow—not dangerously slow. His respirations seemed a bit faster too. More like normal sleep-breathing.
He’d be okay. If she thought otherwise, she’d be on the phone organizing an evacuation. Still, she couldn’t leave him. The least she could do was stay and monitor him until he woke naturally, make sure he was all right.
She sat down on the love seat beside him.
Medically speaking, he looked fine.
Aesthetically speaking? He looked more than fine. And because she could study him without him looking back, she did.
He was still so handsome. Even more handsome, if she was honest. Yes, the years had left their mark, but in a way that enhanced his masculinity. Even with his features relaxed in sleep, she could see there were new lines in his forehead, as though life had not been completely smooth sailing. Yet the lines bracketing his mouth and fanning out from his eyes had deepened, suggesting laughter.
She was inexplicably glad of that.
His thick, dark hair was cut shorter than he used to wear it. She wondered if it still curled when it hit his shoulder. Of course, it probably never got the chance these days. Judging by the expensive, precision cut, he probably stayed right on top of it.
She let her gaze roam over his reclined body. He’d filled out a little, but not too much. Just enough to save his six foot frame from looking gangly. Though when she was all of eighteen, she’d thought his slight nineteen-year-old frame was perfect. Heaven sent.
But now…now he looked like a man, not a boy.
She went back to studying his face. Eyes closed, his lashes lay in a dark sweep against pale cheeks. She’d always loved his coloring, that contrast of black hair, pale skin and blue eyes. Her gaze went to his lips, barely open as he breathed, as if for a kiss. She remembered the last time she’d kissed those lips, when they’d parted outside the diner. That kiss had tasted like coffee and jam and innocence and young love.
But one of them hadn’t been so innocent.
She propelled herself to her feet and moved away from the love seat.
She’d stay for a while to let the medication and alcohol wear off. Then she’d tend to that ankle again, give him some ibuprofen, stoke the fire a last time and cover him with a quilt so he didn’t get hypothermic in his forced inactivity, then be on her way.
Ember looked out the window and her heart sank to see how dark it was outside. She glanced at her watch and groaned. Her body was still on Eastern Time. But this was Atlantic Time—a full hour later. And it was mid-October. Of course it was getting dark, especially in the woods. In another hour, it would be too dark to pick her way back over the rough trail.
Then, as if on cue, the wind picked up, making an eerie moaning sound in the trees.
Dammit. She was going to have to stay the night. In the cabin she hoped never to see again, with Jace-freakin’-Picard.
Suddenly, she laughed out loud. God, if Titus and Scott knew she was alone here with Jace and that she was staying the night, they’d be spitting bullets!
They were so overprotective. Scott especially, though he denied it. As if she didn’t know he used to shadow her from a distance throughout their childhood and teen years, just to watch over her. Some nights she used to sneak out of the house via her bedroom window just to see if she could do it without him following her. She’d actually managed it a couple of times.
And yes, Scott had given Jace the brotherly do not hurt her speech when the two of them had gotten serious. Titus had too.
That was one of the reasons she hadn’t told either of her brothers the whole story of why she’d run away so quickly that night. Yes, she could say it now—she’d run away rather than face Jace again.
Face him after she’d seen those pictures. That proof.
She’d been right here, in this very room, when she’d first laid eyes on the damnable things. It was around this time of the day too, but because it was summer, the sun had still been well up in the sky. She’d gotten here first—about an hour before Jace was supposed to arrive. But evidence of him having been there even earlier was everywhere. There were a dozen red roses in a makeshift vase and chocolate truffles—her to-die-for favorite. The small bed up in the loft had been made up with new satin sheets. Jace would have had to hike all the way out to the cabin with those things, then back down along the river again.
That long ago evening, Ember had sat down on the bed in the loft. Lay down. Stood up. Looked at her nervous self a dozen times in the full-length rectangular mirror on the back of the door. Would she look the same after? Would she be the same? Finally, she’d gone back down stairs in search of something to do to distract herself. That’s when she’d remembered the envelope in her knapsack. It had been delivered to her house two days earlier, a large envelope addressed to Ms. Embre Standish. Beneath her name had been written a message in block letters—For the birthday girl, do not open till you’re 18. Ha Ha—Restricted material! How she’d laughed when her Dad had
handed it to her. Arden had pulled quite the face, but he’d said nothing.
She’d figured Jace was up to something. Who else could it have been from? Yeah, her name was misspelled, but she could see Jace doing that. She was always complaining about people writing it as the more common Amber instead of Ember. It would be just like him to do something like that to mess with her.
In the end, she hadn’t just waited for her birthday to rip the envelope open. She’d decided to wait for their special night, when she and Jace were alone together. That had been the plan, but then she’d got to wondering…
Finally, she’d torn the envelop open, upended it on the table, and the pictures had spilled out.
It had been like a dagger to her heart. Snapshot after snapshot of Jace in his bedroom at the Picards’ house, sprawled on his bed with another woman. The very bed where she and Jace had occasionally fooled around—fully clothed, of course. But this woman wasn’t fully clothed. She sat astride his hips, wearing just her black underwear. Or at least a black bra. With the sheets around her hips, it was impossible to say if she wore panties. But Ember had no trouble distinguishing Jace’s face, eyes closed in bliss, or his hand on the woman’s breast. A slightly older woman by the looks of it. Beautiful and more curvaceous than Ember’s slight, teenage frame.
More pictures. The woman bent over Jace, kissing him. The black bra lying on the sheets beside them.
Even as Ember sat by Jace now, the memory still stung.
To her eighteen-year-old self, it had been devastating.
Jace sighed in his sleep and she checked his pulse and ventilation rate again. Pretty much the same as before. Nothing to panic over. He’d probably just sleep it off and be none the worse for wear.
She yawned and glanced up at the loft overhead. The bed up there would have been stripped of those satin sheets years ago, but she was guessing it would be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the love seat, even with its recliner feature. But that was a no go. She had to stay with Jace. Watch over him. He was her responsibility, thanks to her stupid mistake.