by Susan Fox
“No, you sit. I can find my way. Aren’t you almost due to go on mat leave?”
“I’m working right up to the end. What better place to be when the labor pains start?”
“Good point.”
“Go on down to the doctor’s office, Cassidy. She’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Cassidy followed instructions and took a seat in one of the two chairs placed across from Dr. Young’s desk. The walls had the usual framed certificates. More interesting were the dozen or so drawings and paintings done by patients, ranging from vivid finger paintings to quite nice works of art. One of the better ones, as Cassidy had noted on a previous visit, was Robin’s painting of a couple of horses drinking from the stream that ran through Bly Ranch.
“Hello, Cassidy.” Dr. Young came into the office and closed the door. The petite doctor had her long black hair in a braid, as usual, and wore a yellow shirt over tailored blue capris. She carried a file folder.
No longer worried about the contents of that folder, Cassidy greeted her cheerily.
Carlene Young put the file on the desk and sat in the chair beside Cassidy, turning it to face her. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrific! My leg hasn’t bothered me in at least ten days. Whatever it was, I’m cured. And I’m addicted to yoga. So all those tests weren’t necessary after all.”
Solemn brown eyes studied her. “I’m glad you feel better. But, Cassidy, the tests were necessary. I’m afraid—”
“No.” Any sentence that started with those two words, she didn’t want to hear. “I’m fine.” She stood, ready to leave.
The doctor rose too and rested her hands on Cassidy’s shoulders. “Sit down.” Gently but firmly she pushed Cassidy back into the chair, then sat beside her again. “You may feel fine, but the tests show that you do have a problem. You have multiple sclerosis.”
“No!” She shook her head vigorously, trying to eject those horrible words from her brain. “I don’t! I’m healthy. My leg is fine now.”
“That period of days back in Vancouver when your leg was numb? That was what’s called an attack, an exacerbation, or a relapse. And remember how you told me about the vision problems you experienced for two or three days last year?”
“It was eyestrain!”
“No. It was another attack. A clear diagnosis of MS can’t be made until there are two attacks, separated in time.”
Scowling, Cassidy leaned forward. This doctor was clearly incompetent. “Blurry vision, then a tingly leg a year later, and you say it’s MS? That’s nuts. They’re not anything alike.”
“The diagnosis was based on a number of tests, including the MRI and the Visual Evoked Potential. As for the vision and leg problems being different, that’s typical of how MS works. It attacks the myelin sheath around the nerves of the central nervous system. The symptoms are based on where the attack happens and how extensive it is. A frustrating aspect of this disease is that it’s unpredictable.”
“I don’t care! I don’t have it.” She sprang to her feet again.
Dr. Young reached for her hand and tugged gently. “Please sit down, Cassidy. I know this is hard to take.”
Realizing that her legs were trembling, Cassidy sank back into the chair.
The doctor went on. “There are different kinds of MS. You have the most common one, relapsing-remitting MS, or RRMS. That means you may suffer relapses, but you’ll also have remissions when you’ll have full recovery. It’s not a path of progressive deterioration with no remission, although people with RRMS may over time transition to . . .”
As Carlene Young went on, Cassidy knew the doctor was speaking, but her words were a garbled mess that didn’t register. Until one caught her attention: great-grandmother.
“You may well not end up like her,” Dr. Young said. “It’s possible her MS was progressive. Also bear in mind that she’d have been diagnosed forty or more years ago. Treatments are much better now. Some people with RRMS do suffer a lot of deterioration, but others have some symptoms and attacks and still lead relatively normal lives. There are even some who go into a lengthy remission for decades, possibly even for the rest of their lives.”
Was Dr. Young deliberately trying to be confusing? Honestly, she was the most incompetent doctor.
“We’ve diagnosed it early,” she went on, “and that’s a good thing. Even if you aren’t currently suffering any problems, it’s still best to start treatment early.”
“Treatment? There’s a cure?” GG had died a long time ago. Of course medical science would have found a cure by now!
For the disease that Cassidy definitely did not have.
“No, sadly there’s no cure. Not yet, but there may well be in the future. However, several treatments have proven quite effective. The earlier treatment is started, the better the results.”
No cure. Well, who cared, because she didn’t have MS. “I need to go.”
“I know this is a lot.” Those brown eyes were so sympathetic, as if Dr. Young truly believed that Cassidy had this awful disease. “I have some literature.” She opened the file folder and took out several pamphlets. “These give the basics about the disease and the treatment options. I’d like you to read through them, take some time to get your head around this, and then come back and we’ll discuss it more thoroughly. When you can concentrate and take it in.”
Cassidy shook her head.
Undeterred, Dr. Young went on. “I advise bringing a friend with you. Two pairs of ears, two people to ask questions, it leads to better understanding. And having practical and emotional support is critical to the treatment plan.”
Treatment plan? Didn’t Dr. Young realize Cassidy didn’t plan?
“Perhaps Dave Cousins could come with you,” the doctor suggested.
Dave? Here, listening to words like “attack” and “no cure”? Dave, who’d been there when the love of his life was diagnosed with a terminal illness? Who’d been at Anita’s side as, day by day, she got sicker and sicker and finally died? Dave, who’d been so shattered by that experience that he’d become a shadow of the man he used to be?
Until Cassidy came along and helped him move on, to again find joy in life.
That was her role in Dave’s life. To brighten it. Not to bring him a fresh tragedy.
And why was she even thinking this way? She didn’t have this stupid disease!
This time when she sprang to her feet, her legs were strong with the need to get out of this place. Though she tried always to be honest, right now she was willing to lie her head off to win her freedom. “Fine, yes, I’ll talk to Dave.” She grabbed the pamphlets, which felt shiny and slimy in her hands. “I’ll read these. Make an appointment. We’ll come talk to you.”
“Good. And, Cassidy, try not to worry. We’ll build you an effective treatment plan and a strong support team. You’ll still live a full, active life.”
Of course she would. Because she didn’t have fucking MS!
“Your last name, Esperanza,” the doctor said. “It means hope, doesn’t it? There’s every reason to be hopeful.”
Cassidy did not slam the door behind her and she did say good-bye to Sonya, but her racing heart urged her to slam, run, scream, cry—mostly to run.
So much for Caribou Crossing. This town sucked and she couldn’t wait to see the end of it. As she hurried down the street away from the doctor’s office, there was only one thought in her panicked brain: she had to leave.
A new place, new opportunities, new people. That was what she needed. Somewhere else, she would be a new person. No, she’d be her old self. The healthy, strong, vital, free-spirited Cassidy. The person she’d been before she came to this godforsaken place.
Her racing feet took her past the Wild Rose and she almost stumbled. Dave. How could she leave town without seeing Dave again?
No, she couldn’t. She needed one last night with him. A night to . . . finish things off.
Closure, people called it. Okay, that was what she needed.
Maybe it was selfish, but she needed closure. Then, tomorrow, she’d be on her way. Somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but here. In the meantime, she needed to keep busy. She would get organized to move on, rather than replay that crazy visit to the doctor.
Resolved, she hurried back to her apartment to pack. When she started to open her door, she realized she still grasped the pamphlets. She whipped around to the back of the house and buried them deep in the trash can, where they belonged.
Feeling lighter, cleaner, she entered her little home and pulled her old backpack out of the closet. She’d accumulated more things than would fit in it, but that was often the case. A few comfy faves would go with her, and she’d give the rest to Maribeth. After all, wherever she went next, there’d be a thrift store where she could pick up whatever she needed.
She held up the blue sundress Dave loved. No, she wouldn’t take it. But she’d wear it tonight, along with her pink bra and thong. Dave had a Heritage Committee dinner meeting in one of the conference rooms at the Wild Rose. He should be finished by nine-thirty, and they’d agreed that she’d go to his place then.
Oh God, she would miss Dave so much. It was hard to imagine a day without him. And Robin, that precocious, sunny girl.
No, she couldn’t think that way. She couldn’t think, period. She needed to keep moving.
Backpack almost full, she opened the coffee tin where she stored her passport and money. For once she’d saved way too much cash to put in her wallet. Dave had paid her well and she hadn’t had much to spend money on. She piled the bills into a sock and stowed the sock deep in her pack. She hugged her old Winnie-the-Pooh, then tucked him in too, leaving his head free so he could look out. Then she pulled on her rattiest shorts and tee and stuck in earbuds. Rejecting twangy country and western—Caribou Crossing music—she chose hard-driving classic rock and set to work cleaning the apartment.
When the place was spic and span, she showered and put on the blue dress. She added the gifts Dave and Robin had given her for her twenty-eighth birthday in August: a silver necklace with a Canada goose pendant and a woven friendship bracelet.
With an hour to kill, she had no appetite and definitely didn’t want to chat with Ms. H. She pulled on a Western shirt to keep her shoulders warm, and headed out into the dark evening with two garbage bags. One went into the trash can, the other in the donation box at Days of Your.
Next, she went to Westward Ho! to feed carrots to Cherry Blossom, who she had to admit she’d miss, and to Dave’s palomino, Malibu. Too bad Facebook didn’t allow you to keep in touch with animals.
Horses and riding had sunk into her blood. Maybe she’d go to Alberta, or south of the border to Arizona or Montana. She’d learned a lot from Robin; perhaps she could work as a dude ranch wrangler for a while. Her savings would let her take a bus, rent an apartment, and provide for herself while she job hunted.
She’d be leaving Dave without giving notice. He didn’t deserve that.
But in the long run, it’d be for the best. No way could she stay here a couple more weeks. Perhaps run into Dr. Young on the street. Her parents, even Gramps’s death, had taught her that you had to put yourself first because you couldn’t count on anyone else doing it. And what she needed now—or at least tomorrow—was a clean break and a fresh start.
Cassidy jogged up the four flights of stairs to Dave’s suite. Perfectly healthy, not the slightest problem with her leg—so there, Dr. Young! She snapped the buttons of her Western shirt closed, because Dave got a kick out of ripping them open. And tonight, she wanted physical sex, fiery passion, driving need, not gentle, tender intimacy.
Something inside her warned that too much tenderness might break her.
And she didn’t break. Not since Gramps had died.
She tapped lightly on the door, then opened it and went in. “Howdy, cowboy,” she drawled as he came to meet her, tall and handsome in jeans and a white Western shirt that showed off his tan.
“Hey, you.” When she reached up to clasp his face between her hands, he said, “You smell of horse.”
“I visited Cherry and Malibu. Want me to wash my hands?”
“Nah. I like it, country girl.” He leaned down to kiss her. A light hello kiss. “Guess what? I snagged a few of Mitch’s gold rush trail cookies before the committee ate all of them.”
The cookies, studded with dried fruit, nuts, and coconut, were a favorite of hers.
“Cookies, a cup of tea or a glass of wine, a little TV?” he suggested.
How cozy and domestic. They’d spent a number of evenings that way, ending up with lazy lovemaking either on the couch or in his bed. Perfect evenings.
No, she couldn’t do that. Not tonight. She shook her head. “I’m hungry. But not for cookies.” She hooked her hands in the top of his shirt, one on each side, and pulled downward, hard. The snap buttons popped and the sides of his shirt parted to reveal his rangy, muscled torso.
She’d learned his erogenous zones and now went for the spot at the base of his neck, sucking and tonguing it until he moaned. His distinctive masculine scent was an aphrodisiac.
Breathing hard, he pulled his shirt off.
Next she went for his nipple, the pebbled bud hard under her tongue. When she closed her teeth gently around it, his hips thrust toward her.
Running her hand over the growing bulge behind his fly, she said, “That’s what I’m hungry for.” She dropped to her knees, and by the time she’d freed him from his jeans and boxers, he was fully erect. Mmm, that was her favorite aphrodisiac. Her pussy throbbed in needy response to the sight of him.
When she closed her lips around him, inhaling his sexy musk, he groaned again. “Jesus, Cassidy. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.” His fingers wove through her short hair, cupping her head, steadying her as he thrust slowly in and out of her mouth.
As he did, she sucked him, licked him, used her fingers to slick moisture down his shaft, caressed his balls, using all the tricks that she’d learned heightened his pleasure. Each one sharpened the ache between her legs—and, thank heavens, shut down her ability to think about anything other than sex.
His voice husky, he said, “Oh man, that’s good.” He tugged her hair. “Come here. I want to kiss you, be inside you.”
She wanted him deep inside her, driving hard and fast. So she released his erection and let him pull her to her feet. When he kissed her hungrily, she knew he was tasting himself—and she was tasting his need, giving him hers. Their tongues darted fiercely and they nipped and sucked each other’s lips, inflicting tiny barbs of pain that only heightened arousal.
She whimpered against his mouth and went up on her toes, trying to grind her needy sex against his hard-on.
He thrust her away and ripped her shirt open. As she shrugged it off her shoulders, he reached for the zipper at the back of her sundress. The dress joined her shirt on the floor.
Dave freed himself from the jeans and boxers that had tangled around his lower legs, then fumbled in his jeans pocket to find a condom. She’d taught him to always be prepared.
Cassidy pulled her bra over her head, not bothering to undo it. While Dave sheathed himself, she yanked her thong down her legs. “Now. Now, Dave.” She hooked her hands behind his neck and jumped up, into him.
Though she took him by surprise, he caught her, gripping her as she wound her legs around him. “You are so hot tonight,” he gasped.
“You make me hot.” She reached down to grasp him and guide him to her entrance.
He pumped his hips, thrusting deep and strong. Another thrust, and he filled her completely, stroking every needy cell to tingly sensation.
“God yes,” she gasped. “More. Give me more.”
And he did. She clung, riding him as he pistoned back and forth, slick with the moisture of her arousal.
She whimpered. “Everything, give me everything.” Shifting slightly, she maneuvered so that her clit ground against him with each stroke. Oh yes, that was it, exactly right, the pl
easure was so intense she couldn’t take it any longer, she had to—“Oh God!” She cried out as her orgasm hit like a flash of lightning, sharp and bright and fierce.
A moment later, Dave broke too, jerking hard into her, the force of his climax prolonging the rhythmic pulses of her own.
Then, his legs finally giving out, he staggered toward the couch and managed to tip their still joined bodies down onto it. Breathing hard, they clung together in a messy tangle of arms and legs. Eventually, they sorted themselves out and he dealt with the condom.
He spooned her as she curved her butt into his belly. “How was your day?” he asked.
Her heart jumped. “Fine. Good. Nothing exciting. How was the Heritage Committee meeting?” She didn’t want to talk. And now she realized she didn’t want a night with Dave. No way could she handle that. She had to get moving. Should she tell him she was leaving town? If she did, he’d ask why. She’d say she’d been struck with itchy feet; they’d fight; it would be bad. A horrible way to end an amazing relationship.
“Good.” He yawned. “Sorry. Long day and you drained me, totally. Anyhow, the oral history project is making great progress, and we worked on a strategy”—yawn—“to try to persuade old Mrs. Peabody’s beneficiaries not to tear down her house.”
Good. With some encouragement, he would fall asleep. “That’s the one that used to be a gold rush bordello?”
Another yawn. “A fact that the dear old lady always denied.” Her pulse raced and she had to force herself to hold still. He yawned again. “But our records provide evidence that’s hard to refute.” His words were coming slowly. “We should go to bed.”
She couldn’t. “In a minute. Tell me about your strategy.”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the . . .” Yawn, stretch. “. . . famous people who . . . frequented that . . . bordello . . . So we thought . . .” She waited, holding her breath, forcing herself to lie absolutely still. No more words came. His breathing was slow, his arm heavy.
She gave him five minutes. Another five, her heart hammering like she was running a marathon. Then she eased away, lifting his arm, sliding out, laying his arm gently on a pillow.