Chapter 17 | Heather
Heather
L ater that night, I made my way back down the hallway toward Mom's room, my heart hammering against my ribs with each silent step on floorboards that should have betrayed my approach but didn't. The silence felt wrong, as if the house was holding its breath.
Through the thin walls, I could hear the snoring of exhausted children and the murmurs of a conversation that revealed the pack who refused to abandon us to the coming darkness, people who understood that I needed support.
When I reached Mom's doorway, I found a scene that made something tight in my chest ease completely.
Cole sat in the chair, his tall frame somehow looking comfortable despite the awkward angle required by our mismatched furniture.
His dark clothing blended with the shadows, but his face was illuminated by the soft bedside lamp, revealing an expression of watchful care that spoke of someone taking his vigil seriously.
Mom lay exactly as I'd left her, breathing deeply and regularly, her body peaceful in a way I'd almost forgotten was possible.
The morphine was doing its work, keeping pain at bay and allowing her body the rest it had been fighting against for weeks.
Her hands rested on the blanket, fingers relaxed rather than clenched against discomfort.
"She hasn't stirred," Cole said quietly, his voice pitched low enough not to disturb her sleep. "Breathing has been steady, with no signs of distress."
I approached the bed, studying Mom's face for any changes since I'd been gone. Her color looked better than it had this morning, though I knew from Cole's earlier explanation that this improvement was temporary, a cruel gift that would make the coming loss even more difficult to bear.
"Good," I whispered, reaching out to smooth a strand of graying hair away from her forehead. "She looks so peaceful."
"She is," Cole confirmed, his toffee scent caressing the air. "This is how it should be. No struggle, no fear. Just rest."
I settled into the second chair someone had brought into the room, probably Dante before he'd convinced me to leave earlier. The evening felt different from the afternoon; it was quieter, more intimate, as if the entire house was holding its breath around Mom's peaceful sleep.
"Where are the others?" I asked, realizing the house felt less crowded than it had all day.
"Dante and Angus went home to rest," Cole replied, his hands folded calmly in his lap.
"Long day for everyone. They'll be back tomorrow morning, probably bearing enough breakfast to feed twice as many people as we have.
" A ghost of a smile crossed his serious features.
"Dante can't help himself when it comes to making sure people are properly fed. "
"And you stayed," I observed, something warm unfurling in my chest at the realization that this man, who barely knew us, had spent his evening watching over a dying woman so I could have a shower and rest a little, spending a few precious moments with the children.
"Someone should be here," Cole said simply. "In case she wakes up, in case she needs anything. You shouldn't have to carry that responsibility alone."
Before I could respond, footsteps in the hallway announced another presence. Bennett's peppermint scent preceded him into the room, sharp, clean and somehow reassuring in its familiarity. He carried two steaming mugs, moving with the same muted competence he'd shown throughout the day.
"Coffee," he said, handing one mug to Cole before offering the second to me. "Thought you might need it."
I accepted the warm mug, wrapping my fingers around it and breathing in steam that carried hints of proper coffee rather than the bitter instant we usually made do with. The first sip revealed a quality that spoke of beans that had been carefully selected and properly brewed.
"This is excellent," I said, surprised by how much the simple comfort of coffee could improve a difficult evening.
"Dante brought you a coffeemaker and left detailed instructions," Bennett replied, settling himself against the wall where he could see both Mom and the doorway. "Apparently, your usual brewing methods don't meet his standards."
Cole chuckled. "Nothing meets Dante's standards with food and drink. He's reformed more bachelor kitchens than anyone should have to."
I pursed my lips. “We have a coffeemaker?”
Bennett smiled and nodded. “That’s the start of it, you just watch, he will be filling your kitchen with all sorts of gadgets and gizmos!”
For a few moments, we sat in comfortable silence, sipping coffee and listening to the steady rhythm of Mom's breathing.
But restless energy was building in my legs, the twitching need for movement. My body felt coiled with tension that had nowhere to go except inward, where it fed the anxiety that was always threatening to consume me when I let my guard down.
"I should probably get some more rest," I said, though even as I spoke the words, I knew sleep was impossible. My mind was racing too quickly, jumping between gratitude for the day's repairs and grief for what Cole had told me about Mom's condition and worry about everything that would come after.
"Should," Cole agreed, but his tone suggested he understood exactly why I was still sitting here instead of following his advice. "But will you?"
I shook my head, setting down the coffee mug and rubbing my palms against my thighs.
"I'm too wound up. Too much happened today, too much to process.
" I looked at Mom's peaceful face, then at the two men who were somehow becoming part of our strange family.
"I keep thinking I should go for a run. Clear my head, work off some of this energy. "
"At this hour?" Bennett asked, though his tone was curious rather than disapproving.
"I run best at night," I admitted, feeling heat rise in my cheeks as I realized how that must sound. "There’s fewer people around, and the air’s cooler. And I have a marathon coming up soon. I should be training, maintaining my conditioning."
Bennett's eyebrows rose slightly. "Marathon?"
"The Shaker City Marathon," I explained, unconsciously straightening as I talked about something that felt manageable, something I could actually control.
"I've been preparing for it for months. Well, I was preparing until Mom got sick and everything else fell apart.
" I bit my lower lip, thinking about the entry fee I'd paid when life had seemed more stable, when training had felt like a luxury rather than a necessity.
"The prize money for placing in the top ten could really help the orphanage.
Medical expenses, food costs, all the things we're always struggling to cover. "
Something shifted in Bennett's expression, an intensity that suggested he was processing information that mattered to him. "How's your training been going?"
"Inconsistent," I admitted with frustration that had been building for weeks.
“It’s hard to maintain a proper schedule when you're dealing with medical crises and trying to keep everyone fed and housed.
But I'm still in decent shape. I just need to get back into a rhythm, push myself hard enough to be competitive.”
Cole was watching this conversation with interest, his dark eyes moving between Bennett and me. "Running helps you think," he observed.
"Running helps me not think," I corrected with a smile. "At least about things I can't control. When I'm focused on pace, breathing and pushing my body to its limits, everything else gets quiet."
Bennett straightened away from the wall, and I caught the way his peppermint scent seemed to intensify, as if he was considering something that excited him. "Would you like company?" he asked.
I blinked, surprised by the offer. "You run?"
"I run," he confirmed, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Question is whether you think you can keep up."
The challenge in his voice made something competitive flare in my chest, overriding the grief and worry that had been consuming my thoughts all day.
"Can I keep up?" I repeated with a laugh that felt good despite everything.
"I think the question is whether you can keep up with someone who's actually trained for distance running. "
"Guess we'll find out," Bennett said, his smile suggesting he was looking forward to the test.
The house settled into a deeper stillness around midnight, the children's breathing steady behind closed doors. I slipped from Mom's room, where Cole kept watch for me, leaving behind the warm lamplight and comfort for the cooler darkness of the hallway.
My running clothes were where I'd left them hours ago.
The fabric of the shorts and lightweight top felt familiar against my skin as I changed, like putting on armor that would protect me from thoughts I couldn't afford to think, and emotions that threatened to drown me if I let them come to the surface.
I laced up my running shoes in the entryway, fingers working through the ritual that had preceded thousands of miles over the past several years.
The leather was worn soft from use; the soles showed patterns of wear that spoke of serious training, of commitment that went beyond casual fitness.
These shoes had carried me through grief over losing our first children to adoption, through worry about bills we couldn't pay, through the slow agony of watching Mom's health deteriorate. They would carry me through this too.
The front door opened silently on hinges that no longer protested, another gift from the day's repair work. Cool night air hit my face immediately, carrying scents of distant rain and construction dust that had become the permanent perfume of our recovering city.