‘Oh, Mike…’
She kicked off her shoes, lifted the quilt and slid carefully under it, turning towards him as his arms reached for her and he gathered her up against his chest with a sigh. She breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of him, a strange mixture of hospital and warm, earthy man, and she squeezed her eyes shut and slid her arms carefully round him and hugged him.
He grunted, and she froze, lifting her arms away. ‘Mike?’
‘It’s OK. I’ve got a few bruised ribs.’
She lifted the quilt back and propped herself up, staring down at the vicious bruises over his side and back, a huge spreading stain of vivid, deepest purple where the branch had fallen on him, the bruises so many they’d all run together in a great blotchy sheet. She hadn’t seen them before, because he’d been in a T-shirt and boxers in the hospital, but now, with his T-shirt removed and just the boxers on, she could see them, and they brought tears to her eyes.
‘Bruised?’ she questioned sceptically, a give-away shake in her voice. ‘Is that what you call it? Just…bruised?’
His smile was a little crooked. ‘Well, the odd rib might be cracked.’
She shut her eyes again and lay down, keeping her arms well away from his ribs, one hand lightly resting on his shoulder, her face cradled against his chest. It rose and fell slowly, then stopped, and she looked up and saw his lips pressed hard together.
‘What is it? Are you OK? Where do you hurt?’ she asked, panicking, and he turned his head and stared at her, his eyes raw with emotion.
‘It’s just so good to be home—to hold you,’ he said, and she was stunned to hear a catch in his voice. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Oh, Mike…’ She broke off, the words dammed up behind the tears, and she lifted a hand to his cheek, letting it linger as she feathered a kiss over his lips. ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ she said, knowing that they weren’t just talking about this last two nights but the months and months before, the aching void since things had been good between them, natural and relaxed and just plain happy.
A sob broke free, and his arms tightened around her, easing her closer. ‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘I can’t bear it when you cry. It tears me apart.’
‘You could have died,’ she whispered, her chest shuddering, and his arms squeezed tighter.
‘But I didn’t, and I’m home now. Stay with me, just for a while. Dad’s here, doing the milking, and Joe and Sarah have still got Brodie—it’s just us, Fran, and we don’t have to do anything or be anywhere. So stay with me. Let me hold you—just for a little while.’
It had been so long since he’d held her that she’d have been happy to stay there for ever. He didn’t need to talk her into it. She tilted her head and kissed him again. ‘Just for a while,’ she agreed, and, closing her eyes, let herself relax against him.
She was asleep.
It felt so good to hold her after all this time, but he needed the bathroom, and he didn’t think he could get up without help. He couldn’t bear to disturb her, though.
Not that they could stay there for long, because he could hear his mother moving around in the kitchen, and his father would have finished milking now. With a sigh he bent his head and brushed his lips against her cheek.
‘Wake up, darling,’ he murmured.
‘Mmm,’ she said, snuggling closer and ignoring him.
‘Fran, I need a pee and I can’t get up when you’re holding me.’ He probably couldn’t get up at all, but they’d cross that bridge when they got to it.
She eased away, lifting herself up on one arm and turning back the quilt, her eyes widening as he sat up with his back towards her and she saw the full extent of his bruises. Her lips pressed together but she didn’t say a word, just slid out of bed and came round to his side, moving the quilt the rest of the way off him and helping him shuffle forwards to the edge of the bed.
‘Stay there for a moment, give yourself time,’ she said, and handed him a clean T-shirt. ‘Here, put this on. You don’t want to frighten your mother to death.’ When he’d carefully eased his way into it, trying not to wince, she gave him his crutches. ‘OK?’
He nodded, shifted his weight to his left foot and the crutches and stood up carefully. Hell. He was still wobbly, and she was so tiny that if he started to go he’d crush her.
He gave it another second, then tried a step. Fran reached up, steadying him by the shoulders as he adjusted his weight and swung slowly forwards on the crutches. OK. So far, so good. He took another step, then another, and he was at the bathroom door in a few more steps without incident.
‘Can you manage?’ she asked, and only his pride made him say yes.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her with more confidence than he felt.
‘OK. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
‘Great. I could kill a decent cup of tea,’ he said. Shutting the bathroom door, he leant on it quickly before he fell over. Damn.
Triple damn with a cherry on top.
He eyed the loo in disgust. Who on earth had decided to put it right on the other side of the bathroom?
‘How is he?’
Fran shook her head, sat down at the kitchen table and smiled unsteadily at his mother, still ridiculously close to tears after watching him struggle to the bathroom. ‘OK, I suppose, but he’s very sore. I didn’t realise—I thought it was just his legs, but it’s everywhere. He says he might have a cracked rib.’
Joy nodded. ‘Joseph said there was a big branch across his back. He was lucky—’
She broke off, biting her lip, and Fran realised she wasn’t the only one who’d been through hell. And it was so stupid!
But she wasn’t going to fight with him any more about it, or tell him off. He was well aware of how close he’d come—he had to be, he wasn’t an idiot. Although how anyone as clever as him could be so frustratingly dense was incredible.
His father, Russell, came in, followed by Sarah and Brodie, and then Joe, shucking off his overalls and grinning at her.
‘You look a bit rumpled,’ he said, and she ran a hand through her hair and smiled self-consciously, colour warming her cheeks.
‘I just lay down next to him for a minute and fell asleep,’ she said, oddly embarrassed to have been caught napping with her own husband, but Sarah hugged her as if she understood.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I am now he’s home. He’s in the loo—I must go and help him back to bed.’
But he was there, in the doorway, as white as a sheet and fending off Brodie with one hand while he leant heavily against the doorframe.
‘So where’s that tea, then?’ he said, cracking a smile. ‘I don’t know, five of you in the kitchen and the kettle isn’t even on.’
‘We were just debating on the slowest and most painful way to kill you,’ Joe said mildly, scrubbing his hands in the sink. ‘I’ve cleared the slurry pit.’
‘I can tell—I can smell it on you,’ Mike said, wrinkling his nose.
‘The lengths some people will go to to get out of the worst jobs,’ Joe quipped, and, shaking his hands, he wiped them on his jeans and gave his brother a crooked smile. ‘Take a pew, for God’s sake, before you fall down.’
He pulled a chair out, steered his brother towards it and propped his broken leg on another chair while Joy put the kettle on. Fran moved to his side, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, afraid to hurt him until her mental map of his bruises was more accurate, but he just tilted his head and smiled at her, covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.
In the busy, crowded kitchen you would have thought such a tiny gesture would go unnoticed, but suddenly you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone stopped talking and stared at them, then looked away, finding things to do, a burst of conversation ending the brief, deafening silence.
Was it really so strange that she should go to him, that he should touch her, that his entire family had stopped in their tracks and stared?
Evidently it was.
&nb
sp; Mike, looking up at her, hadn’t even noticed, but she had, and it made her wish they’d all go away. Their marriage felt so fragile at the moment; they needed to work on it, to find out if they had anything left, to piece together, slowly and painstakingly, the fragments of their love, and she wasn’t sure she could do that under the penetrating gaze of their relations.
Because what if, like Humpty Dumpty, they couldn’t put it together again? If, at the end, they found there simply weren’t enough pieces left to make it work…?
They had to make it work. Anything else was unthinkable. And so, burying her natural reticence, she bent her head and kissed him. It was the merest touch of her lips to his, but it was a sign, and a promise, and his eyes met hers and held them for a long moment. Then he squeezed her hand again where it rested on his shoulder, and the world started to breathe once more…
CHAPTER FIVE
‘SHALL I sleep in the spare room?’
Mike looked up, frowning, but Fran’s eyes were unreadable. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I didn’t want to crowd you. With your foot—if I hit it in the night, I might hurt you.’
‘You won’t hurt me. It’s all pinned and plated, Fran—it’s not going anywhere. You’re more likely to stub your toe on the cast.’
‘But what about your ribs? If I shift around…’
‘You won’t. You never disturb me. Anyway,’ he added, sure that there was more to it than just concern about hurting him but not knowing what, or how to deal with it, just that he had to keep her with him come hell or high water, ‘what if I need to get up in the night? I might need help.’
For the longest moment she hesitated, then with a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh her shoulders sagged in defeat and she nodded.
‘You’re right. I’ll try and keep out of your way.’
‘You’re not in my way,’ he said, feeling a wave of relief at her submission. He’d really thought she was going to sleep in another room, and it had scared the living daylights out of him.
It was the thin end of the wedge, the beginning of the end, and for all they were hovering on the brink, he couldn’t let it go that far. Not yet. Not now. Hopefully not ever.
He was curiously reluctant to let her out of reach, even though he’d actively avoided her for months. But he’d better not scare her off. Shucking off his dressing-gown and letting the new, loose boxers she’d got him that fitted over his cast fall down around his ankles, he kicked them carefully away and lay down, wondering if he could find a position that didn’t hurt his leg and then deciding that it was his leg and not the position that hurt, and it wouldn’t frankly matter if he hung the damn thing out of the window…
‘You haven’t had your painkillers, have you?’ she said, and he wondered if she was a mind-reader.
‘I didn’t think I needed them,’ he lied. He knew perfectly well he needed them, but they made everything blurred at the edges and he was worried he’d say or do something—
What? Something affectionate? Romantic?
Desperate?
Damn. Perhaps he should have kept the boxers on.
She handed him the pills and a glass of water, and he swallowed them down. What the hell. He’d just lie with his back to her and keep his hands to himself and his mouth shut, and hopefully he’d be asleep soon…
He was restless.
Fran lay awake beside him, keeping a careful distance and wondering how much pain he was in.
A lot. He must be. She’d seen the X-rays, seen the metal framework holding his leg together, seen the screws that went right into the bones…
It made her feel sick just to think about it, sick and scared and as if she wanted to gather him up against her and hold him close, to ease it, to take away the pain in any way she could.
Except she couldn’t take it away, of course, and, besides, he’d lain down with his back firmly towards her, discouraging any repeat of their earlier cuddle. But then he mumbled something in his sleep, and she reached out a hand and laid it gently on his side, and he sighed softly and went quiet.
Comforted by her presence? She felt a tear leak out of the corner of one eye. She’d missed him so much. He’d only been gone two nights, but they’d been lonely and endless. Crazy when, apart from their earlier hug, they’d hardly even touched each other by accident in bed recently, never mind deliberately, but nevertheless she’d missed his presence there.
He murmured again, and she moved closer, curling her body behind his and snuggling up, her hand resting lightly on his hip, afraid to wake him. But the painkillers must be keeping him under because he didn’t stir, just sighed and relaxed against her, the tension she hadn’t even been aware of seeping out of him, and she felt her own tension dissipate into the night.
Her eyes drifting shut, she laid her cheek against his shoulder and fell asleep…
He woke to find her curled around him.
It was his leg that had woken him—that and the ribs he was lying on—and he really needed to turn over, but she was in the way and he couldn’t bear to wake her.
She’d move away—he knew that, knew she must have ended up lying against him by accident, because, God knows, apart from their cuddle when she’d got home from work and the briefest of brief kisses in the kitchen, if there’d been a way to avoid it she hadn’t touched him in ages. There could have been chainlink fencing down the middle of the bed since April for all the difference it would have made, they’d kept so strictly to their own sides of the bed.
He straightened his leg a fraction and, as if she’d read his mind again, she shifted away, giving him room.
‘You OK?’
‘Mmm. Just need to move my leg.’
‘Sorry.’ She scooted across to the far side of the bed, and he rolled carefully over towards her.
‘Better?’
‘Mmm,’ he said again. Better, but too far from her. He lifted a hand, almost reached for her, then, letting his breath out on a silent sigh, he lowered his hand back to the mattress. No. Too dangerous. He didn’t trust himself, and the last thing he wanted to do was drive her away.
He shifted a fraction, trying to get comfortable, and listened to the sound of her breathing. It took her ages to fall asleep again, and he wondered if she was listening to him breathe as well, so he deliberately slowed his respiration rate down and after a few more minutes he heard a subtle change in hers as she slid into sleep.
But it wasn’t a happy sleep. She was restless, murmuring, and he reached out a hand. Should he?
Yes.
This time, he let himself touch her, let his fingers curl over the slender, fragile curve of her shoulder, and with a contented little sigh she wriggled backwards until she was touching him, the soft roundness of her bottom brushing his thighs, her back against his chest, and she relaxed again.
Lucky her. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
It had been so long since he’d touched her. She was wearing a nightshirt, not much more than a long T-shirt, and it had ridden up so that the soft, bare skin of her bottom was against his legs, silky smooth and unbelievably arousing; he ached to rest his hand on her thigh, to slide it up and round her slender, tiny waist, up over her ribs, curling his fingers round to cup one of her small, firm breasts in his palm—
His body reacted instantly, and he felt his erection brush against her, sending shockwaves racing through him. Dear God, he wanted her. Wanted to hold her, touch her, bury himself in her, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t put her in that position again.
He shifted his hips, pulling back away from her, but she followed him, her bottom bumping against his penis, and then he heard a soft gasp as she came suddenly, instantly awake.
Fran froze.
What the hell was she doing? Snuggling against him, her back against his chest, her bottom spooned—oh, lord. She couldn’t move away. If she moved, he might know she was awake, and if she didn’t…
If she didn’t, and he reached out for her again, wanted to make love to
her—could she do that? Let him? After so long, she really wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure at all that she could let him touch her, kiss her…
She felt the brush of his erection again, felt the stillness in his body and knew he was awake. Awake, and aroused, and waiting for her to make the next move.
Oh, dear God. She couldn’t deal with this. Her emotions were too close to the surface, and if he touched her, all hell might break loose. So she faked a mumble, shifted away, rolling onto her front with her head turned away from him, and after an endless moment she heard him sigh.
Had she fooled him? She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the threatening tears, and after a few more minutes she heard the rustle of the quilt, felt the mattress shift and heard him grunt with pain as he sat up.
What was she to do? Pretend he’d disturbed her and get up and help him? Stay put with her eyes closed and listen out for him until he’d got down the corridor to the bathroom?
He was naked. If he was still aroused…
She stayed put, her ears straining as he picked up the crutches, took a step, swore softly and moved again. The bedroom door was open and as he went unsteadily down the corridor, she turned her head and watched him until he was in the bathroom.
The door closed softly, and she dropped her face into the pillow and sighed. What now? Pretend she’d been asleep? If she was a decent wife she’d get up and make him a drink, but that would mean talking to him, and she felt awkward—gauche and nervous and oddly apprehensive. What if he said something about it?
What if he knew she’d been awake?
Oh, why on earth had she wriggled up against him? Because she had, of course. She’d been right on her side of the bed after he’d rolled towards her, and when she’d woken, she’d been slap in the middle, her bottom rammed firmly up against him—as in, Sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that comes up, she thought, and groaned with embarrassment.
No wonder he’d had an erection. He’d have to be dead not to react to that, whether he’d wanted her or not. He was a relatively young man after all, fit and healthy and in the prime of his life. And it had been literally months since they’d made love. After such a long time, he’d surely react to anything female.
Caroline Anderson, Josie Metcalfe, Maggie Kingsley, Margaret McDonagh Page 7