Chapter 24 Sedona
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sedona
The thunder is a deep, physical roar that shakes the very foundations of the bunkhouse. It pulls me from a fitful, feverish sleep, my eyes flying open to darkness.
A flash of lightning illuminates the room in a stark, brilliant blue-white, etching the outlines of the two empty bunks across from me and the sleeping form of Clara on the cot beside mine.
The rain follows, a sudden, violent lashing against the tin roof, a sound so loud it’s like the world is being torn apart.
I’m starving. It’s a hollow, gnawing ache in my stomach that eclipses even the pounding in my head.
My body is a battlefield of conflicting sensations: the external chill of the room versus the internal furnace of the fever, the exhaustion in my bones versus a strange, restless energy that hums just beneath my skin.
Clara is asleep, her breathing soft and even, one hand thrown over her eyes to block out the intermittent flashes of light. I slip out of my bunk, quiet and careful, not wanting to wake her.
My phone is on the small table between the bunks. The screen lights up when I pick it up, a cascade of notifications.
Missed calls from Dr. Alistair, from an unknown number that’s probably Cole, a dozen texts from Clara’s friends in New York. I ignore them all, swipe them away.
I can’t deal with the outside world right now. I can barely deal with the world inside this room. The time on the screen reads 4:02 a.m.
The hunger is a demanding beast. My thoughts drift to the kitchen in the main house. Is there any food left there?
The idea of making a run for it, of braving the storm for a piece of cold meat, is tempting.
I’m pulling on a pair of jeans over my leggings, my mind made up, when another flash of lightning illuminates the landscape outside the small window.
And I see it. A light.
It’s not the main house. It’s coming from one of the barns, a soft, yellow glow that’s a stark contrast to the violent, blue-white of the lightning. It’s a single bulb, probably a work light, and it’s cutting through the sheets of rain.
And then I see it again. A shadow moves past the light, a large, dark shape that’s definitely not an animal.
Concern cuts through my feverish fog. Who would be out in this? Jasper? Maybe he couldn’t sleep either. Or maybe something’s wrong. One of the calves, maybe?
The thought of one of those poor, stressed animals alone and scared in this storm is enough to propel me into action. I grab a hoodie from my bag, pulling it on over my T-shirt, and slip out of the bunkhouse, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me.
The rain is a cold, shocking assault. It soaks through my hoodie in seconds, plastering my hair to my face and making the thin fabric cling to my skin. The wind whips around me, howling through the eaves of the barn.
I squint, trying to see through the downpour, my feet sinking into the mud as I make my way toward the light.
The barn door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside, the warmth and the smell of wet hay and manure a welcome embrace.
And that’s when I see him.
Billy.
He’s standing by a stack of hay bales, his back to me. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of soaked jeans that hang low on his hips, the water running in rivulets down the broad, muscular planes of his back.
He’s unrolling a large blue tarp, his movements powerful and efficient, his focus entirely on his work. The sight of him, so raw and elemental, steals the breath from my lungs.
He must sense my presence because he stills, his muscles tensing. He turns, and his eyes widen in surprise when he sees me standing there, dripping wet and shivering in the doorway.
“What are you doing up?” he growls. “You should be in bed.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “What are you doing out here?”
He gestures to the tarp, to the stacks of hay. “Tarping the pens. And putting out extra hay. To keep the calves warm.”
He turns back to his work, but I can tell he’s still aware of me, his senses on high alert.
“Where are the mothers?” I ask, my veterinary mind kicking in, the professional concern overriding everything else.
He lets out a long, weary sigh. “They moved them to the south pasture. The CDC wants to study the two groups separately. See if the parasite presents differently.”
There’s a frustration in his voice that mirrors my own, a shared helplessness in the face of this scientific invasion.
“I can help,” I say, the words coming out before I even think them. I need to do something. I need to feel useful, to escape the suffocating helplessness of being a patient.
“No,” he says, leaving no room for argument. He turns to face me fully, and I can see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “It’s late. And you’re sick.”
“I feel fine,” I lie, my chin jutting out in defiance. “And I’m not going back to bed, so I might as well do something useful.”
He walks toward me, his boots squelching on the wet concrete floor. He stops just a few feet away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can smell the familiar scent of pine smoke and rain.
He studies me, his gaze intense and searching, sweeping over my face, my damp hair. He sees the stubborn set of my jaw, the defiant glint in my eyes.
“You’re still the most stubborn person I have ever known,” he says, but there’s no anger in his voice. Just a sort of weary, grudging admiration.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, a small, defiant smile touching my lips.
He can’t help it. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting, almost involuntary twitch that’s there and gone in a second.
It’s the first crack in the icy facade he’s worn since I got back, and it sends a strange, warming flutter through my chest.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time, the concern overriding everything else.
I meet his gaze, my own unwavering. “Put me to work, Billy.”
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze a mix of frustration and something else, something softer, something that looks dangerously like concern. Finally, he lets out a long, resigned sigh.
“Fine,” he grunts, turning back to the tarp. “But you do the light stuff. No heavy lifting. You try to lift a hay bale, and I’m carrying you back to the bunkhouse myself. Understand?”
“Understood,” I say, unable to hide my triumphant smile.
He puts me to work, but true to his word, he does most of the heavy lifting. My job is to unroll the tarps while he drapes them over the pens, creating makeshift roofs to keep the driving rain out.
I help him spread extra hay along the edges, creating a thick, warm bed for the shivering calves. We work in a strange, companionable silence, the only sounds the storm raging outside and the distressed sounds of the animals.
He moves with a powerful grace, his body a study in controlled strength. I watch him, the way his muscles bunch and flex as he lifts a heavy bale, the way his brow furrows in concentration.
It’s a familiar sight, one I thought I’d forgotten, but my body remembers. My body remembers the feel of those arms, the safety of that strength.
When the last pen is secured, we stand back, admiring our handiwork. The calves are already burrowing into the fresh hay, their lowing quieted to a soft, contented murmur.
A particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the barn walls, and the lights flicker for a second.
“Thanks,” he finally says. “For the help.”
“Despite what you think, I’m not a monster,” I tell him, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “I don’t like seeing animals suffer any more than you do.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “I never said you were.”
“I should head back to sleep,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, the fragile truce between us threatening to shatter.
As if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, betraying growl. It’s a sound so loud and so utterly out of place in the tense quiet of the barn that it’s almost comical.
He’s grabbing his shirt from a hook by the door, and we both turn to look at each other at the same time. And then we burst out laughing.
It’s not a polite little chuckle. It’s a full-throated, belly-deep laugh that shakes my entire body and makes my head ache, but it feels so fucking good to laugh with him after all this time. Like a crack in a dam that’s been holding back a flood of pain and regret for years.
“Did you not eat?” he asks, his laughter subsiding into a warm, easy grin.
“Just cookies,” I admit, my cheeks flushing.
“The sheriff ended up grabbing us some food from town before they locked the place down,” he says, pulling his damp shirt over his head. “There’s some in the kitchen. We can heat it up.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice soft.
“We’ll have to run for it, though. It’s coming down pretty hard out there.”
“I’m so hungry I can barely care,” I say, and I mean it.
He surprises me by offering his hand. “Come on.”
I surprise myself by taking it. His hand is large and warm, callused from years of hard work, and it engulfs mine completely.
He pulls me toward the door, and we break into a run, dashing out into the torrential downpour. The rain is cold and exhilarating, plastering our clothes to our skin and making it hard to see.
We’re laughing again, like a pair of kids, splashing through the puddles that are forming on the path. We stumble and bump into each other in the dark, our bodies colliding in a clumsy intimacy.
He catches me, his arm wrapping around my waist to steady me, and for a second, we’re just standing there in the middle of the storm, holding each other.
He pushes open the kitchen door and flips on the switch. The room is flooded with a soft, yellow glow.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice close to my ear.
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless. “Just a little headache.”