Chapter 18 Left in the Dust
Left in the Dust
Sawyer
Idon’t think Wes owes me anything anymore.
He helped me into my bed after making sure I ate something, and I passed out almost immediately.
He must have stayed here all night because he woke me up twice to give me more medicine.
The second time he told me he’d turned out the horses and taken care of the goats.
Sun filters through my sheer curtains as I get up to use the bathroom.
It feels like my body is weighed down with lead just walking a few feet.
The simplest things take a huge amount of effort and my joints protest as I sit down on the toilet, the deep ache from my flare-up making even the most mundane things an arduous task.
After finishing up in the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
My lips curl in frustration at what I see.
My face is red and swollen, and my hair looks like a rat's nest. I push through the soreness in my shoulders to brush out the tangles and then braid it to the side so I don't have to lift my arms more than necessary.
I drag myself into the kitchen where my meds are sitting on the counter. I swallow the prednisone my rheumatologist prescribed to me for flare-ups, my daily immunosuppressant, and some more ibuprofen. My countertop looks more like a damn pharmacy than part of my kitchen.
The clock on the little microwave on my counter tells me it’s well past my usual wake up time, but it doesn’t matter because I’m already tired again. I snag a yogurt from the fridge and trudge to the couch.
I wince as I open the yogurt, pain lancing through the joints of my fingers, but I’m grateful they still have enough strength to manage the yogurt lid. I stare down at my yogurt, tears stinging the backs of my eyes as I realize I forgot to get a spoon.
It’s not that I don’t want to get up and get one, but I don't think I can. The kitchen feels so far away when my body is fighting itself.
I breathe through my frustration and stare at my open yogurt and the little tin foil lid in my other hand.
I sigh and begin to bend and shape the lid into a makeshift spoon.
It’s a little flimsy, but it does the trick.
I turn the TV on and watch some crime show while I eat, letting memories of the last few days replay in my head.
I don’t know what it is about Wes that makes me want to spill my guts to him. First, about my ex. Then, about my lupus and my frustration at the betrayal of my own body, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, it’s becoming a weird habit.
His hazel eyes had widened in shock when I’d mentioned lupus. Tripp hadn’t told him, which made my outburst even more embarrassing.
I know I won’t feel well enough to bring the horses in or do night check, and it makes my stomach clench to know I’ll need to ask for help again.
I take a second to get a hold of myself, to stop the feeling of shame that is winding its way into my stomach.
Shame that I know is unwarranted, even though a small voice whispers that I’m a burden to everyone whenever a flare-up occurs.
I grind my teeth together, reminding myself that the people here are like family to me. That I would do the same for them in a heartbeat if the tables were turned. And that not a single one of them has ever griped or complained about helping me when I need it.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table, joints protesting as I weakly curl my fingers around it. I prop it on my pillow so I don't have to hold it while I find Tripp in my recent calls, but instead, I see a text from Wes.
City Boy
How are you feeling today?
I take the lack of reply to mean you’re resting or you just can't type because of the flare-up.
I’ll be over later to do night check and to check in on you.
How did he know texting would be difficult during a flare-up?
And why is he so determined to take care of me?
I can't make any sense of it. I haven’t exactly been pleasant enough for him to want to go out of his way.
I sigh, resigned to the fact that he’s coming over again, just as my phone lights up with an incoming call—from none other than Wes Dawson.
I press the speaker button and answer the way I always do.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out in a feeble croak.
"You sound awful," Wes says bluntly.
"Such a charmer," I deadpan.
"Sorry." His tone softens. "Just wanted to check on you."
I roll my eyes. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" he presses. "Do you need anything? I read heating pads and ice packs can help with sore joints. I can pick some up if you want."
"I'm sure. I don't need you mother-henning me," I grit out.
"Alright, alright," he concedes, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'll leave you alone for now, but I'll be over later."
"Fine," I agree reluctantly. I press my thumb to the screen before he can ask any more questions about how I’m feeling or what I need. He's done more than enough.
I want to go out and see to the horses, to let their gentle energy settle whatever emotions are rolling through me. I want to check on Dixie and make sure the goats aren’t breaking out of their pen yet again—but the moment I sit up for too long, the room tilts, and my head spins.
With a quiet sigh, I sink back down, letting the soft hum of the television lull me to sleep once more.
I jolt awake to the sound of my screen door slamming. “Still alive, Red?” Wes calls from the doorway.
“Mm-hmm,” I grunt from the couch.
I crack an eye open and see Wes carrying in a couple of paper bags that look full.
He’s wearing that worn-out Stetson and his Levi’s that cut tight across his thighs.
They’re covered in dust, which means he’s been working outside all day while I’ve made my home here on this couch.
I watch him kick off his boots and set the bags down before he’s in front of me.
He looks me over in a slow perusal, his fingers scratching at the stubble that’s growing in. It suits him, makes him look a little less clean cut and more rugged.
“You still look like shit,” he says, snapping me out of my appreciation of his new rustic-looking scruff.
I’m well aware that I look like shit. I’m swollen and my face is red and splotchy.
“Ugh. I hate you.” I throw the blanket over my face. “Did you lose your razor? You’re looking a little rough around the edges, city boy.” I peek out from under the blanket to see how my insult lands.
Wes stares down at me dubiously with his hands poised on his hips. “I ran out and forgot to pick some up when I was in town. You must be feeling a little bit better, since you have the energy to disparage the facial hair today.”
The sound of a whimper and scratching at the screen door prevents my reply. Wes glances toward the door, a slight smile curving his full lips. “Dixie’s worried about you. She’s been standing guard at the door night and day.”
“You can let her in. I’ll regret it later when I have to get up and let her back out, but it’d be nice to have some company that doesn’t tell me how awful I look every time they come in.”
Wes gives me an apologetic look before stalking over to the door to let Dixie in. She bounds around the couch and sniffs at me anxiously.
“I’m alright,” I tell her, giving her a scratch behind her ears while she breathes anxious doggy breath right in my face. Her tongue drags over the tip of my nose and then she circles three times before plopping down right in front of the couch.
“That dog sure loves you.”
“What’s not to love?” I tease.
Wes smirks. “I’ll refrain from answering that question and make us some dinner.”
When he turns around, I stick my tongue out at him. I can’t help myself. Wes brings out my bratty side.
My fingers drag through Dixie’s fur as I listen to Wes whistling in the kitchen while he makes us supper.
I’ve only eaten a yogurt and a bowl of cereal today because I didn’t have the energy to wait for something to cook.
Something sizzles in a pan, and the smell of bacon makes my mouth water and my stomach growl.
“How are the horses?” I ask.
“Fed, watered, and groomed. Dolly misses you, though.”
“Mm,” I murmur, relaxing back into the sofa. “I miss her too.”
Wes brings me a plate a few minutes later that is piled with potato chips and a BLT sandwich. He hands me a bottle of water with the lid already unscrewed for me. The small gesture makes my chest ache.
The way this man—who is absolutely nothing to me—is over here checking on me, taking care of my animals, and making me dinner has me second-guessing every negative thought I’ve ever had about him.
He has no reason to be here for me right now, but he saw I needed someone and stepped up. No questions asked.
Wes brings his own plate and drops on the other side of the couch.
I swallow the bacon along with the lump of pride clogging throat. “Thank you for everything you did for me last night and today. You didn’t have to do all of that. I really appreciate it.”
He snorts a laugh.
My brow furrows. “What’s funny?”
“You saying ‘thank you’ is funny. It’s so unlike you.”
My eyes roll. “I’m not a complete savage. I thank people when they do kind things.”
He smiles as he chews a bite of his sandwich. “You look a little better than yesterday.”
“The fever isn’t so high today, so I’m managing a little bit better. I thought about trying to go out to see the horses, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it back to the house without you having to fireman carry me inside.”
He shrugs. “I have no problem putting you over my shoulder and hauling you back inside if need be.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I can’t tell if he’s flirting or just letting me know he’d make sure I got inside if I did decide to go out and see the horses.
“Might throw your back out. It’s not used to any heavy lifting these days,” I taunt.
His gaze narrows, and he sucks on his tooth. “I won’t throw my back out. I’m in fine shape.”
I look him up and down. “You’ve gone a little soft around the middle.
” I poke at the small belly he’s grown since leaving the ranch.
I remember exactly what he used to look like when he worked the ranch shirtless every day when he was a fresh eighteen.
“I like this though,” I concede. My fingers scratch through his two-day scruff before I pat his cheek condescendingly.
He pulls back and swats at my hand. “You can’t just be nice?”
“You’re the one coming in here telling me I look like shit,” I point out.
“I didn’t mean... it’s just you... you’re sick,” he stutters.
I enjoy watching him scramble for the right words, but since he’s been mostly nice to me this past week, I let him off the hook. “I know what you meant. Still, you’d think at thirty-five you’d know better than to say things like that to a woman.”
“Maybe that’s why Hannah dumped me,” he muses. “Explains a lot.”
“If the woman’s too weak for a little brutal honesty, then she’s not the one for you.”
“Guess not. I never could seem to say the right thing when it came to her. She always said I wasn’t sweet enough.”
I snort because the fact that he’s over here taking care of me when he doesn’t have to be says he's plenty sweet.
“She must have never seen you with a horse,” I say. The way Wes is with the horses is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
“No. She wasn't really an animal person.”
I scoff. “She sounds lovely.”
He shrugs. “She wasn’t so bad. At least she wasn’t until she realized I wasn’t changing the way she hoped I would.”
My gaze trails over him speculatively. “She thought you were a fixer-upper boyfriend?”
“Maybe I was. I don’t know. I was never really happy, I guess.” He studies the chip in his fingers before putting it in his mouth.
“Hm. You seem happy enough to me now. Definitely not when you first got here, but you’ve settled in nicely.”
Wes hasn’t been here long, but I can see a change in him already. He got knocked right off his high horse when Pops made him stay, and now he’s down in the dirt and dust with the rest of us in Cottonwood Creek.
It suits him.
Just like those Levi’s and that damn Stetson he’s still wearing.
He puts the back of his hand to my forehead, eyes widening in alarm. “Your fever must be back. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He laughs, and I roll my eyes dramatically. “Don’t you have work to do or something?”
“I suppose so.” There’s a hint of disappointment on his face, and now I’m regretting my words.
I enjoy having him here, trading barbs with him as he lounges on my couch.
Weird.
The thought takes me off guard. Maybe I’m just feeling cooped up since I don’t have the energy to do anything.
Wes squeezes my thigh, and I feel the scrape of new callouses against my soft skin, silent proof of his hard work these past weeks.
The subtle friction of it sends a shiver up my spine, and suddenly I want to feel those rough hands everywhere.
It's a fleeting reminder of just how long it's been since I've been touched.
He removes his hand too soon and stands up. The absence of his touch is prominent, and though I want to tell him not to go, I hold back because, while I might have come to think of Wes as a friend, I know he’s not staying.
He has a life back in the city that he’s eager to get back to as soon as everything is settled with Pops and the ranch. So instead of asking him to stay and keep me company, I watch him walk out my door and listen to the rumble of the old blue Chevy as he leaves me in the dust.