Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
EMMETT
Screams trap me, freezing me in the past.
Time and sleep don’t dull the memory of that night—nothing ever has. Sixteen years later and reliving it is no less painful than the night I started the fire.
I pace between the barn and the house, my hands pulling at my hair as I spin in a circle, every breath coming at me faster than the last as I watch the flames grow.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what happened. I can’t stop it and I can’t take it back.
“Rory!”
My grandmother’s scream splits the night as she stumbles down the porch steps, her body moving faster than her feet can carry her. “She’s not inside, Mark. I can’t find her.”
His head jerks toward the flames swallowing the barn, then to me, then back to the black smoke mushrooming against the blue sky.
“Was she in there?” my grandfather asks.
“No. No. No.” I tug at my hair, knocking my baseball hat to the ground.
She can’t be inside.
I can’t be the reason something happens to her.
A horse bursts through the side door, wild-eyed and lathered. His hooves slip against the dirt as he bolts into the night.
Another follows.
Then another.
All but one breaks through the smoke.
Bluebell is still inside.
My stomach drops.
Rory wouldn’t leave her horse behind.
I bolt straight for the barn.
Heat slams into me, stealing the air from my lungs. Violent coughs have me pulling my shirt over my mouth to cover it.
I drop to my knees, crawling toward the stalls. It’s impossible to see, gravel cuts my palms, and my skin feels like it’s melting off.
“Rory!”
The roar of the fire steals my screams.
I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
I’ll die here if it means she gets out.
I don’t know where I am or how far I’ve gone—five feet or five inches, it’s all the same. A few more feet and my arm bumps metal. I yank my arm back from the searing pain. A stall door.
I’ve got to be close.
A hand wraps around my ankle, dragging me back.
“No!” I kick, trying to free myself.
I have to find her.
I fight, clawing for purchase, but it’s useless. I’m hauled out and pinned against my grandfather’s chest, his arms banded around me—holding me up and holding me back.
“Shhh . . . You’re okay.”
It’s too soft. Mark Slate was as blunt and gruff as he was barrel-chested.
This voice is soothing—kind and concerned. Familiar too, but I can’t quite place it.
“Everything is fine.”
Only, that’s not what comes next. My nightmares always end with the same four words.
“It’s too late, Emmett.”
“Emmett.”
That gentle echo pulls me back to the present.
I wake with a gasp; sweat rolls down my temples. My lungs burn like I never left the smoke behind, and my throat is raw, like I’ve been screaming.
“There you are.” Calming pressure strokes up and down my shin as she stands over my bed.
A hospital bed.
I’m not back at the ranch.
Rory and my grandparents aren’t here.
And she’s not an angel.
Aspen—the flight nurse who pulled me off the mountain.
It’s hard to believe she’s real when she only shows up during my moment of need and disappears just as quickly.
But the palm squeezing my leg is real, just like the faint scent of mint she carries.
It was all that was left of her after her visit the other night.
Waking up to Becky poking and prodding me didn’t hold the same appeal.
“You were having a nightmare,” she says.
“What are you doing here?” The words scrape my throat.
I sound like a prick.
She didn’t do anything wrong, and I know that. If anything, I’m annoyed with myself.
“I heard you call out as I was passing by,” she says carefully. “You were thrashing. I didn’t want you to rip out your IV.”
That explains the hospital gown twisted around my waist.
Aspen’s gaze falls away, and the loss of it makes me feel unsteady, which can’t be good.
I’m still sorting through how I feel about that when I follow her gaze and find the dressing on my shoulder peeling back.
Fuck.
The adrenaline crash slams into me, bringing the sharp stab of pain with it.
I shift but can’t find a comfortable position.
“May I?”
I nod, my molars clamped tight.
Her hands are cool on my good shoulder as she adjusts the pillow behind me. “Let’s get you comfortable first.”
“Better,” I grit out.
“Let me glove up.”
She stops fussing and steps away, giving me time to get my racing pulse under control. I pull in slow breaths through my nose, watching her move.
Strands of dark hair slip from her braid, and the light from the hallway halos her at the sink. If it weren’t for the harsh fluorescents, she’d look almost unreal. It’s too easy to get caught up watching her.
She flits around my room like she belongs here. Like I don’t rattle her.
Nothing seems to.
I shut that thought down.
As pointless as tits on a bull, Slate.
Soft humming overpowers the steady beeping that’s been grating on me more and more lately.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks, returning to my bedside.
“Not even a little.”
Not with the therapist my grandparents made me see.
Especially not to Aspen, with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s light. And the secrets I harbor are dark enough to snuff that out.
She doesn’t push. Instead, she doubles her focus on peeling back the edge of the dressing.
Air hits my burn, sending a sharp sting down my arm. I hiss through my teeth.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “I have to replace it.”
She leans closer, her brows knitting as she checks the wound.
Her fingers brush my skin as she works the ointment over the burn.
The sting fades under her careful touch, leaving behind a dull throb I can actually breathe through.
She shifts and I get a hint of sweet mint—clean and comforting, in contrast to the sterile hospital smell.
I shouldn’t notice the way she steadies my shoulder with one hand while the other settles fresh gauze into place. It shouldn’t matter that she’s extra gentle about it, as if she can’t stand the idea of causing me any more pain than necessary—that’s her job after all.
Even as she firmly presses along the edges to keep everything in place, she’s checking in, watching my face for any signs of discomfort. It’s more than I can take and I find the night sky through the crack in the blinds. It’s all I can do to keep my attention off her.
Her palm lingers against my shoulder a second longer than necessary, steadying me.
“There,” she said quietly. “Let’s try to keep this one on, okay?”
“No promises,” I say, almost forgetting to keep the distance I put between us. “Thanks, but you can get back to work.”
She laughs softly, like I’m not pushing her away, and sits in the chair beside my bed. “I’m actually done for the night and this chair is super comfy. I think I’ll stay here until you fall back to sleep, just in case you decide to wrestle the bedsheets again.”
That chair is an atrocity.
I stare at her, unsure what to do. This is the second time she’s come by, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’s wasting her time.
“Honestly, you’re doing me a favor—me and this chair were getting serious.
” She yawns wide and sinks deeper into the vinyl, making it squeak.
“I’m coming off a sixteen-hour shift.” Her hum is soft and content, as if being so exhausted she can’t function is the key to happiness.
“Not sure I’ll make it to my car before I pass out. ”
Like a hound, she’s sniffed out my weakness and is exploiting it without looking at all remorseful.
It’s annoying, and fucking endearing, which ony makes it more annoying.
I don’t want visitors—that’s by design. But no way in hell will I be responsible for her driving into a tree because I told her to leave when she was too tired to be on the road.
“You can stay.”
Her triumphant grin slackens into a peaceful expression, her eyes drifting closed as she lets out a sated exhale. The chair squeaks as she sinks deeper into it.
There’s no way she’s comfortable.
I watch her, tracing the graceful line of her body through the dim light. The longer I look, the heavier my eyelids grow. She’s so tranquil, so serene. Completely at ease with who she is. And somehow, her presence takes the edge off.
Not even the scratchy hospital sheets bother me.
Sleep finds me, which is rare after these dreams. It must be the drugs, though, because I don’t actually believe in angels.