Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Paisley
Two weeks later, it starts with a cough.
Just a small one, the kind that's just a tickle in your throat. It's annoying, but you don't think much of it. Chase is standing at the stove making breakfast, and he coughs into his elbow.
"You okay?" I ask from the table. In the months I've been out here with him, he's never coughed.
"Fine. Just swallowed wrong."
But then he coughs again. And he keeps doing it throughout the day.
By evening, I'm watching him more closely. "Chase, you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, Paisley. Stop worrying." He's at the coffee table, entering more information into his spreadsheets. "It's just the weather, and it's dry as fuck in this cabin with us always having the fire going."
I'm concerned, because his color is slightly off, and his eyes are glassy in the shadows of the fire. "Maybe you should rest," I suggest.
"I'm fine."
Men. Stubborn, infuriating men who think admitting they're sick is some kind of weakness.
Over the next few days, the cough gets worse. I can hear it rattling in his chest, deep and sounding as if it hurts. He tries to hide it, tries to act like everything's normal, but I see the way he winces when he takes a deep breath.
"Chase," I try again.
"Don't start." His voice is rough and hard. He sounds tired, and I hate that he's feeling that way.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I keep going. "You need to rest."
"I need feed and check on Blackjack."
"Blacjack can wait."
"He can't, actually." He pulls on his coat, and I want to scream. "I'll be back soon."
He leaves before I can argue with him anymore, and I'm left pacing the cabin, worried. Biscuit follows me, meowing like she's worried too.
"Your dad is an idiot," I tell her.
She meows in agreement.
When Chase comes back, his face is flushed and there's a glassiness to his eyes. This time it's worse and it makes my stomach drop. He's sick. Really sick.
"I'm going to bed," he mutters.
"Yeah, you are." The words come out clipped. I'm mad at him because he's not taking this seriously.
That night, I sleep fitfully, waking every time he shifts or coughs. Around three in the morning, I'm jolted awake by him yelling.
"Cara Leigh!"
I sit up, my heart pounding, stomach dropping as I watch what's happening. He's thrashing in the bed, still asleep but clearly in the grip of what appears to be a nightmare.
"Chase, wake up." I try to shake him.
"Why did you do it?" His voice is anguished, broken. "Why wasn't I enough? You ruined my life. You ruined everything."
My chest tightens. Cara Leigh. Could this be his wife? The one he never talks about.
"I loved you," he continues, his words slurring together. "I would've done anything for you, and you left me. You killed yourself and left me alone."
It is his wife. Tears prick my eyes. I've never heard him sound like this, so devastated, so raw.
"I can't..." he gasps, tears rolling down his face. "I can't love anyone else. You wrecked me. You completely wrecked me."
I reach over and touch his forehead. He's burning up.
"Chase, wake up." I shake his shoulder gently. "You're having a nightmare."
His eyes fly open, but they're unfocused. "Paisley?"
"Yeah, it's me. You're sick. You have a fever," I rub my thumbs against the skin of his forehead.
"I'm fine."
Shaking my head, I argue. "You're not fine. You just yelled what I think is your dead wife's name and said she ruined your life."
He closes his eyes, turning his face away. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Chase, you're really sick." But he's asleep again, not hearing what I'm saying.
Over the next week, I become his nurse. I monitor his fever, which spikes and drops and spikes again. I make him drink water and broth even when he doesn't want to. I change the sweat-soaked sheets and wash his face with cool cloths.
And I try not to think about what he said in his delirium.
*I can't love anyone else. You wrecked me.*
I tell myself it doesn't matter. That he was out of his head with fever, that people say all kinds of things when they're sick. But it sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold.
Does he still love her? Even after all these years, even after everything?
And if he does, is there enough room in his heart to love me too?
I push the thoughts aside and focus on taking care of him. I've never taken care of a horse before, but I figure out how to feed and water Blackjack, how to muck out his stall. He's patient with me, nickering softly when I bring him his grain.
"Your dad is sick," I tell him. "But he's going to be okay."
I hope I'm telling the truth.
Biscuit becomes my constant companion, following me from room to room, curling up next to Chase when I'm not in the bed. It's like she knows he needs us both.
On the seventh day, Chase's fever finally breaks. I'm sitting in the chair next to the bed, half-asleep, when I hear him stir.
"Paisley?" The voice is rough and ragged, barely audible.
My eyes snap open. "Hey. You're awake."
"Water?"
I pour him a glass and help him sit up enough to drink. His hands are shaking, weak from days of being sick.
"What happened?" he asks, looking around like it's the first time he's seen the room.
"You've been burning up with fever for a week. I've been taking care of you."
He looks around, seeing everything for the first time. His gaze stops at the basin of water and cloths on the nightstand, at the empty soup bowls stacked on the dresser. "You took care of me?"
"Of course I did."
"What about Blackjack?"
"I fed him. I think I did it right, anyway. He seemed happy."
Respect and surprise crosses Chase's face. "You took care of my horse?"
"Yeah, and Biscuit. Biscuit's been really important." I give him a grin. "We've been tag-teaming your care."
He reaches for my hand, squeezing it weakly. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." I squeeze back. "You mean a lot to me, Chase."
"You mean a lot to me too."
The words are there, at the back of my throat.
The ones I want to say and the ones I need to ask.
But I'm scared. I know I should let this go, that he just came out of a fever, he probably feels disgusting, and doesn't understand what's been happening, but I can't stop the words. "Who's Cara Leigh?"
He stiffens, and I see him start to pull back within himself. "Someone from my past."
"Chase..."
"Thank you for taking care of me," he says again, clearly trying to end this conversation.
But I need to know. Is that his wife? Is she the one who has a hold on him? Is this the woman that made him want to help me?
"You called out her name," I tell him. "You said she ruined your life. That you can't love anyone else because of what she did."
Pain flashes across his face, and his jaw ticks. "I was out of my head."
"Were you?"
He doesn't answer, and that tells me everything I need to know.
"Okay," I say quietly. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm here when you're ready."
"Thank you," he whispers.
I leave him to rest, but as I walk out of the room, I can't shake the feeling that there's a ghost in this cabin. A ghost named Cara Leigh who Chase can't let go of.
And I don't know if there's room for both of us in his heart.