Thornhill Road (Love Me Tender)

Chapter One

Tess

I pulled into the driveway on Ramshorn Avenue and checked the time.

A sigh of relief passed between my lips when I saw I was ten minutes early.

“Hey, Siri—set timer, ten minutes.”

My phone talked back to me, alerting me to my ten-minute timer, then I leaned my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I was four hours away from the end of my double shift. That meant two more stops. Two more patients.

Ten minutes.

Ten minutes of sleep was going to carry me through.

It was all I needed.

Just ten minutes.

A knock sounded at my window.

I pulled in a deep breath and opened my eyes.

Seven minutes. I’d gotten seven minutes.

It would have to do.

Glancing out the driver’s side window, I saw Mitchell Jones offer me an apologetic smile and a timid wave. I smiled back at him. Not timid. Not apologetic.

Real.

Genuine.

Tired, but genuine.

He was a major reason why I was there. His mother was dying. Stage four lung cancer. Inoperable. Never smoked a day in her fifty-nine years.

Her life expectancy when I met her had been three months. Now she had weeks left. Six, maybe less. She wanted to spend what time she had remaining on this earth in the comfort of her own home, surrounded by family, and it was my job to make sure she got her dying wish.

I also considered it my responsibility to make sure both of her sons were well supported and looked after during such a difficult time.

I canceled my timer, grabbed my purse and my bottle of water—water I wished was coffee, even though I’d already had my fill—then moved to get out of my car.

“Hi, Mitch. How you doin’?”

“I’m so sorry to wake you. I’m sure you’re burning it at both ends. I saw you pull up, and I wanted a chance to talk before you came inside.”

Mitchell was average height with dark blond hair I was sure he got cut every four weeks, like clockwork. He had brown eyes, a strong, masculine jaw, and a subtle cleft chin that wasn’t unattractive.

“No need to apologize,” I said.

I meant it. Mitchell was the eldest of the two brothers. He was always so kind and gracious. It was obvious he loved his mother and felt quite helpless. He couldn’t fix her, but wherever he could step in or show up, he would. He was a good son. A good man. The kind of man I thought I should consider for myself.

Not him of course. Aside from the fact that he was already married—and I made it a point not to date married men—he was related to one of my dying patients. Family members were strictly out of bounds. For ethical reasons, first and foremost, but also because I had unwavering boundaries when it came to mixing my work and my emotions.

It was critical in the field of hospice care.

All that aside, someone like Mitchell was who I thought I should keep an eye out for. Someone stable with a good head on his shoulders. A man with a corporate job. Maybe even a job that required him to wear a tie.

As boring as it sounded, it also seemed quite safe.

My dating history was littered with men who were far from safe. Mitchell wasn’t exactly my type—but for the last couple months, I’d thought it was time for me to reconsider my options.

However, at present, my pathetic dating life was not a priority.

I was at the house on Ramshorn Avenue, which meant I was there for Sharon.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked Mitchell as we slowly made our way toward the front door.

We chatted for a few minutes on Sharon’s porch. Mitchell’s youngest daughter, Emilia, had come down with a cold. She’d been in the house the day before, and he was worried. I reminded him that sick toddlers were inevitable, he couldn’t possibly blame himself, and I’d monitor Sharon carefully for any sign of a cold; then we both headed inside.

I could barely remember a time when I didn’t want to be a nurse. Since I was twelve years old, it had been my plan. I had no alternate routes for my future. Hospice care, in particular, was my end goal. For the last six years, that’s exactly what I had the privilege of doing.

And it truly was a privilege.

It was exhausting in every way—mentally, emotionally, physically. It was hard work. The schedule was shit, and I didn’t know the meaning of work-life-balance , but it was worth it. Not once had I regretted my career choice, because it was more than a career.

It was a vocation.

It was my calling.

It was medicine, sure. I was a registered nurse. But a hospice nurse was so much more than that. I addressed my patients' spiritual and emotional needs, too, as they journeyed toward death. I was there to make dying dignified, peaceful, and comfortable—or as comfortable as possible. It’s what made the job such a challenge. It was also what made the job so rewarding.

Hard as it was, I loved it.

I went through my usual routine with Sharon, checking her from top to toe. Once I was done with her physical exam, we discussed how she was feeling, and I got an assessment of how alert and oriented she was. Then, like I did with most of my patients, I sat with her for a few minutes and visited while I charted.

I was wrapping up, checking to see if she needed any of her prescriptions filled, when the sounds of an argument drifted into the room. I looked toward the doorway and frowned.

Lance had arrived.

“My boys…they’re having a rough go of it lately,” murmured Sharon.

It had become clear to me where Mitchell had gotten his personality. She was busy dying, and Sharon hardly spent any time worrying about herself, too concerned with the family she would leave behind. It was why I liked to spend a few extra moments with her each visit, so we could focus on her for a little while.

I offered her a small smile, then reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll talk to them. You get some rest, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

I stowed my tablet in my purse, then double checked to make sure I had all my supplies. I bid Sharon farewell and ventured out toward the living room.

I didn’t need Sharon to tell me her sons were having a rough go of it lately. This wasn’t the first argument to draw me away from my patient. They were two men who were losing their mother. Rather than bond over it, they were hurtling their grief at each other like grenades.

“Guys—guys,” I interjected as I went to stand between them. “We agreed. No arguments without a mediator. As I understand it, Renee is home with a sick toddler, which leaves me. So—are we good here, or do I need to get a chair?”

“No. Sorry, you’re right,” said Mitchell.

“Yeah. All good here,” agreed Lance.

Lance, though younger, was the taller of the two brothers. His hair was lighter. His nose was sharper. His jawline squarer. One might have said he was the more attractive brother—until he opened his mouth.

I hadn’t met their father. He and Sharon were divorced. When I considered Lance, I wondered if his personality was his own, or if the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. He was certainly the more selfish of Sharon’s offspring. Most of the arguments were instigated by him; and most of the time it was about money, or whose turn it was to help with laundry or house chores.

In the two months I’d been coming around, I hadn’t seen Lance even so much as fold a single tea towel.

There was also something slimy about him that made me feel uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, people experienced pain in a variety of different ways, so I did my very best to offer him as much patience and grace as I could muster.

“I’m going to go check on mom,” Mitchell told us before he left.

I blew out a breath and looked up at Lance. “You sure you two are okay?”

“We’ll be fine. Thanks for stepping in.” He reached for my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

As he began to let me go, he trailed his fingertips a short way down my back before dropping his hand to his side.

I gave no response to his touch but did a mental shiver.

He made me feel so ick. Like he was incapable of platonic affection.

“I should get going. I’ve got another patient to see.”

“Of course. It was good to see you, Tess.”

I nodded, waved, and said, “I’ll be back in a couple days.”

Once on the other side of Sharon’s front door, I closed my eyes, stretched my neck, then rolled my shoulders back.

One more patient. Two more hours.

I was on the home stretch.

On my way to my car, I pulled up Edmond Thomas’ address. He was my newest patient. This was going to be my first trip to his house on Thornhill Road. My GPS told me I’d be there in about twenty minutes, and I didn’t waste any time before I began the short trek north.

When I pulled into his driveway, the first thing I noticed was the unkempt yard. It was the middle of June, and we hadn’t had snow in several weeks, which meant it was lawn mowing season. Only, Edmond Thomas had a yard full of weeds, not grass.

The house looked old and almost as neglected as the lawn, and I wondered what I’d find on the inside. Since it was my first visit, I took some extra time to go over his chart before I got out of my car. He was dying from pancreatic cancer. According to his list of medications, he also had cirrhosis of the liver and a few other long-standing conditions he’d been dealing with, as well. Aware I wouldn’t know the full extent of what I’d be dealing with until I met him, I grabbed my things and was at his front door in under thirty seconds. After a quick knock, I waited for someone to answer.

Edmond filled the doorway a minute later.

He was a tall man with hunched shoulders. One look at him, and it was obvious he’d once been formidable. Now, at only sixty-one years old, he was on the verge of appearing frail. His clothes hung on him like they belonged to someone else, and his eyes—while a pretty hazel-blue—were sad.

“Mr. Thomas?”

He jerked his head in a nod. “You my nurse?”

“Yes. Theresa McBride,” I said, extending my hand as I offered the name the care center would have provided. “But, please, call me Tess.”

He accepted my hand with a stronger grip than I anticipated, and this made me smile.

“Call me Ed. Come on in,” he muttered.

He turned and left the door open as he made his slow return trip deeper into the house. I followed after him, closing us inside. We didn’t go far. It was a split-level home, but he’d obviously dispensed with dealing with the stairs. In what I assumed was once a living room, there was an unmade bed, a well-used recliner, a television that sat on top of a wooden dresser, and a bunch of clutter on every flat surface there was. On the opposite side of his living area, partitioned by a wall, was the kitchen. I assumed the bathroom wasn’t far, either.

Ed made his way to the edge of his bed and took a seat.

“So, how does this work?”

I set my purse at my feet, took out my tablet, and proceeded to explain what a typical visit would look like. I then asked him a list of questions and proceeded with my exam. When I was finished, I grabbed a chair from his kitchen table so I could take a seat next to him while I charted.

“Ed, other than me, who is going to be helping with your care?”

“Got someone who drops by to take care of the laundry and cleaning ‘bout once a week.”

I nodded, hugged my tablet to my chest, and clarified, “What about any family or loved ones?”

He shook his head. “My wife died a lifetime ago, and I haven’t seen my son in years.”

When he said son , I saw the slight nod he gave to the frame that sat beside him on his nightstand. It was the only picture frame I’d seen on the main level of the house.

“May I?”

He nodded and I laid my tablet in my lap in order to pick up the frame. I was surprised to find not a picture but a clipping out of the Gillette News Record , our local paper. There was no date, so I wasn’t sure how old the clipping was, but I recognized the establishment in the photo and knew it couldn’t have been more than a few years old.

The article was about Steel Mustang, a popular biker bar located on the edge of town on the Wild Stallions Motorcycle Club compound. Even though bikers were the typical patrons, the bar wasn’t exclusively for those in the club, and it drew quite the crowd. They were known for their live music and the great bands they hosted.

I didn’t know this via hearsay.

I’d been a couple of times.

I could attest, it was awesome.

However, I didn’t recognize the man in the photograph.

Not that it was a great quality photo. It was black and white. He was leaning against his motorcycle with his arms folded across his chest and a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. I knew enough to be sure the leather vest he wore was a kutte , and I was certain the patch on the back matched the tattoo he was sure to angle toward the camera on his right bicep. It was difficult to see the details in the clipping, but everyone in town recognized the Wild Stallions logo. It was a skeletal stallion head, only it was designed to appear made out of metal. And the mane wasn’t hair, but fire.

It was badass.

I’d never officially met anyone who rode with the Wild Stallions—but the members who made up the heartbreaker club, known informally as my exes, were men who could have been cut from the same cloth.

Or, if not the same cloth, they’d at least have been found in the same fabric section at the store.

All that to say, I didn’t need to actually read the article to know what it was about—but I did glance at the caption beneath the photo.

Sullivan Thomas, long time member of the Wild Stallions MC and majority owner of Steel Mustang, poses in front of the up-and-coming biker bar.

“Sullivan, that’s your son?”

“Sully,” Ed corrected. “Turned out alright, no thanks to me.”

I studied the dying man in front of me for a second, curious about the details behind the sad look in those hazel-blue eyes. He was all alone, and I didn’t like it.

“Says here he’s the owner of this bar. That means he’s local,” I pressed gently.

“We don’t talk, Tess. He doesn’t even know I’m sick. It’s just me. Move slow on account of the pain, but I can still manage to get around most of the time. If you’re gonna be comin’ by for night visits, I got a spare key I can give you.”

“Okay, Ed,” I murmured, setting aside the photo frame. “Let’s try that for a while and see how we get on.”

I stayed for a few more minutes, then collected my things and the spare key to the house on Thornhill Road. I bid Ed farewell, assuring him I’d be back in a couple of days and insisting he call me should he need me before then. It was a few minutes after four when I got behind the wheel of my car. I was done for the day. I was free to go home and sleep, which was exactly what I wanted to do.

Except, I couldn’t.

Ed Thomas was all alone in the house I’d just left, and that didn’t sit right with me.

I understood families were complicated. People had falling outs and relationships were torn apart. But I also knew what it was like to lose a parent to an illness they couldn’t beat. Sully didn’t even know his dad was sick. I didn’t understand what that was all about, but death had a way of changing people’s perspectives. Maybe whatever was broken between father and son could be reconciled with the threat of losing their chance on the horizon.

I figured it was worth a shot.

I didn’t know Ed, but I knew it was my job to make sure he died in peace and comfort.

It was obvious he was lonely, and it felt like my duty to reach out to Sully, just in case all they needed was a little intervention.

So, I didn’t go home.

I put my car in reverse, I backed out of the driveway, and I pointed my car toward that bar.