Coming in from the Cold Page 11

  He swallowed thickly. “You’re not here,” he said.

  “Dane?” she took a couple of steps closer. His lips looked unnaturally dry and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Tentatively, she reached down and put her hand on his brow. “Oh, my God.” He was burning up.

  His big arm came up off the bed then, clamping down on her hand, pinning her hand to his head. “Not supposed to do this,” he said.

  “Do what?” she whispered, her mind reeling. She had to call someone. His fever must be off the charts.

  “Touch her,” he said. “Not allowed.” He folded his big hand over hers and held on.

  “Dane,” she whispered, her heart racing. Willow slipped her hand out from under his. “I have to make a phone call,” she said.

  But Dane wasn’t having it. With surprising speed, he grabbed her other hand instead. “No.” His fingers around hers were hot and dry. His blue eyes stared up at her, vulnerable.

  “Dane,” she said firmly. “Let me make the call, and I’ll come back.”

  In answer, he only held on tighter. She could probably just wrench her hand away, but she was afraid of his reaction. If he got upset and began flailing around, what would happen? Would a feverish person be mindful of his own broken knee?

  She would try reverse psychology. Willow sat on the edge of the bed and put her free hand onto his, which gripped her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He squeezed her hands as his eyes fluttered closed. Willow waited a minute or so, wondering how she’d gotten herself involved. She would call Coach first. If he didn’t answer, she’d call Callie. Dane’s eyes didn’t open again, so Willow counted to ten and then tried to slip her hands out of his.

  “No,” he said, holding on, his eyes still shut.

  Willow sighed. She looked down at his big hand wrapped around hers. In her dreams, he came to her, these hands reaching out to hold her, to apologize. But the only version of Dane who wanted her nearby was the one rendered temporarily insane by fever. “Dane,” she tried. “I thought you weren’t supposed to touch me.”

  His eyes flew open and then fluttered closed again. “Not real,” he said with a sigh. “S’okay.”

  “Good to know.” Willow listened to the old clock on the wall tick and wondered what she should do.

  “Can’t have you,” he whispered. His face creased with pain. “Not ever.”

  Her neck prickled again. “Why?” she whispered. Or maybe she just thought the word. And maybe he didn’t even know what he was saying.

  Why did everything have to be such a tangled mess?

  Willow watched his face. His jaw relaxed, his forehead became smooth. With his face peaceful, he reminded her of a Renaissance painting—all masculine lines and draped fabric. His chest rose and fell under the sheet. After a few more minutes, his grasp on her hand went slack. She slipped away, tiptoed for the door and ran back to her house.

  * * *

  Coach did not answer his phone, which was hardly surprising. She had only a vague idea of where Burke was, but she knew it was in northern Vermont, where the mobile phone coverage was even spottier than it was here.

  Tracking Callie down was something that often took time. So Willow called the main hospital number and asked them to page her. “Is this an emergency?” the receptionist asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  Willow’s phone rang a few minutes later. “What’s the matter?” Callie asked, breathless. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Willow said. “But Dane has a high fever.”

  “How high?”

  “No idea,” Willow sighed. “But Coach asked me to check on him, and his forehead is like a radiator. Also, he says I’m not real.”

  “Crap,” Callie said. “Postsurgical infections can be nasty. I don’t suppose you looked at the incision?”

  “No,” Willow said. “I called you instead.”

  There was a silence while her friend thought it through. “Of course you can’t move him. He can’t crutch out to the car like that, if he’s insensible and thinks you’re his dead aunt Zelda.”

  “Trust me, he’s not getting up to go anywhere.”

  “I think you have to call 9-1-1, Willow. If he has a staph infection, it could kill him. If your gut says his fever is high…”

  “It is. I always thought ‘burning up with fever’ was a cliché. I don’t anymore.”

  “Okay. Then put him on a bus and send him our way.”

  * * *

  Willow called 9-1-1 and asked them to send an ambulance. Then she left a message for Coach. Finally, she carried her cordless phone back to the apartment, having no idea whether or not it would work back there. When she opened the door, Dane’s eyes were still closed, but he was trembling.

  She went into the little bathroom and wet the hand towel with cold water. After wringing it out, she placed it over his forehead.

  “Christ,” he said suddenly.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  His hands were shaking with fever, and it frightened her. She picked both of them up just to make it stop. Willow held his hands in her lap and watched the clock.

  It took fifteen minutes until she heard tires in the driveway, and Willow reminded herself never to have a heart attack in rural Vermont. She ran to the door, waving to the two EMTs who would otherwise have knocked on her kitchen door.

  “I’m Bill,” the first EMT said. “How are we doing?” He was a guy about Willow’s age. His partner was a woman with a Mohawk and a piercing through the middle of her nose.

  “Well,” Willow began, “my friend here had knee surgery at the hospital a few days ago. And now I think he has a high fever. I called the hospital, and the doctor is worried about an infection. I’d drive him in but…” she opened the door.

  “…but he’s an enormous motherfucker,” Bill said, striding over to the bed.

  “Language,” warned the woman.

  Bill tapped Dane gently on the hand. “I’m Bill,” he said. Dane didn’t move. Bill put his wrist on Dane’s cheek. “Winner. That’s a big fever all right.” He held Dane’s wrist, clocking his pulse.

  “So I’m not crazy?” Willow asked.

  “Not about that,” Bill agreed. “Besides the surgery, any other medical issues?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Willow answered.

  “We’ll get the stretcher.”

  * * *

  Willow got out of the way when they wheeled the stretcher inside. “His right knee is broken,” she said.

  “We’ll take care,” the woman said. “Let’s have a look.” She peeled the sheets off a Dane.

  His eyes flew open. “Finn?”

  “I’m Rhonda,” she said. “I’m just going to take a look at your knee. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Finn?” he asked again, his voice panicky. Willow’s heart splintered at the sound of his plea for his brother. She did not know what to say. “Coach?” Dane tried.

  “He’s on his way,” Willow said. “You’ll see him soon.”

  He craned his neck at the sound of her voice. His eyes were frighteningly unfocused.

  Bill had maneuvered a board underneath Dane. “On three,” he said. “One, two…” He and Rhonda lifted ends of the board, transferring Dane to the stretcher. Moving quickly, Bill clicked straps across Dane’s chest and hips.

  Dane didn’t like it. He tried lifting his head off the stretcher.

  “Easy,” Bill said. “This is just for the ride.”

  But Dane was having none of it. He shook his torso from side to side, and the stretcher rocked.

  “Hey now,” Rhonda warned. She flicked a glance at Willow. “A little help here?”

  Willow stepped up to the stretcher and looked down at him. “Dane,” she said. His eyes swam onto her. “You’re a little sick, and you have to see a doctor.”

  “Not the nursing home,” he said.

  “Nursing home?” Willow shook her head. “Of course not. And Coach will meet you at the…
doctor’s.”

  Dane’s hand flapped. It was held in by his side by a strap at his wrist. He was trying to reach for her. So Willow took his hand. “You feel good,” he said.

  “We can’t allow you to ride in the bus,” Rhonda said. “But you can follow us.”

  Willow considered this idea. She could easily climb into her truck and follow them. But Dane, when conscious, didn’t want a thing to do with her. And because she wasn’t family, the hospital would make her wait in the waiting room. If she went, it would mean sitting on a plastic chair all night, for someone who did not love her and never would.

  The awful thing was, she was quite willing to do it.

  That’s really pathetic, she told herself. Even as Dane tightened his grip on her hand, she knew what she had to do. She would let that ambulance roll down her driveway, and then she would go back inside the house and stay there. It was for the best.

  * * *

  Dane held tight to the angel’s hand, even as the bed began to move. She tried to let go, but he held on tight.

  “No,” he said.

  “Can’t fit you and her through the door, sport,” said a voice. A pair of hands separated his from the angel’s, and he didn’t like it. So he let them know. By yelling. But the bed beneath him moved anyway. He yelled louder.

  “Jesus, hold his fucking hand already,” the voice said. The angel’s hand slipped back into his.

  The air was now colder, which felt good on his face. There was winter light, which made everything better. But the ride was bumpier, and he felt spears of pain in his knee. “Fuck,” he said. The angel’s hand squeezed his.

  “Almost there,” the voice promised. Then he felt himself being lifted. “Shoulda had my Wheaties cereal this morning,” the voice complained.

  He lost the angel’s hand.

  Christ.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It wasn’t really lunchtime yet, but Willow had ducked away from her desk at the insurance agency. Shrugging on her coat, her plan was to grab a bagel from the little market on the corner. It had been such an awful, nauseated morning. She had already thrown up once in the agency bathroom, flushing the toilet to cover the sound of her retching. She hadn’t got the hang of morning sickness yet. But carbs seemed to help tame the dragon in her gut.

  Also, the cool outdoor air seemed to help. So Willow took her time walking toward the deli, peeking into the windows of the ski shops that lined the street. There was a delivery truck pulled up next to Rupert’s Bar and Grill. A metal conveyor slide stretched onto the sidewalk, and one burly guy in a knit cap hustled cases of beer down the ramp, while another grabbed them off, stacking them onto a hand truck.

  Willow paused, considering her options for navigating around them. But even as she did so, the smell of stale beer mixed with the urine that some late-night customer had aimed into the gutter stabbed her nostrils. All at once, Willow felt the telltale signs of another bout of morning sickness—too much saliva in her mouth, the rising panic in her throat.

  Her path blocked, Willow veered into the door of Rupert’s, which was propped open for the delivery. Inside, she ran straight past a startled Travis and into the empty ladies’ room. There, she leaned over the toilet and gagged violently. Her body managed to throw up only a pathetic amount of…she didn’t like to think what. But at least she would feel slightly better now.

  Willow took her time wiping her mouth, flushing away the evidence and then washing her hands. She rinsed her mouth repeatedly, blinked her watering eyes and checked her reflection in the mirror. It was startling to see that the Willow looking back looked almost normal. Sure, there was a pallor there, but it was late January. And her eyes were a bit red. But given the way she felt inside, she ought to have seen a many-headed mythological beast looking back in the mirror. It was time to sneak out of here and get back to work.

  “Willow, are you okay?” Travis was waiting for her right outside the door, a concerned expression on his face. Damn.

  She stood up a little straighter, throwing her shoulders back. “Sure, Travis, I’m fine. Just a little…” She cleared her throat. “Emergency. Sorry.”

  He folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “You sure? You look pale.”

  “Sure, I’m sure.” If only it were true. She could still feel her mouth watering uncomfortably. What she needed was to get away from here and buy a bagel. That would settle everything down. She would have never believed that eating food could cure nausea. But morning sickness was a different beast than any other stomach upset she’d ever experienced.

  “Okay,” he said, still watching her. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  That got her attention. Willow’s eyes snapped to his, and what she found there was startling. Her friend’s green eyes were soft, like an open question. The corners of his mouth tugged upward in a handsome smile.

  “Would you have dinner with me, Willow?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know, Travis, I’m kind of…” she swallowed. Her empty stomach turned over on itself, and she steeled herself against the sensation. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d be dry heaving in the ladies’ room again shortly. “Travis, I…” she put a hand to her mouth, trying to get control.

  His expression changed to a quizzical one, and then flickered with trouble. “Come with me, Willow,” he said, turning around. He walked straight towards an open doorway.

  Willow drew in the deepest breath she could muster and followed him. By the time she walked into the big commercial kitchen, Travis had already grabbed something out of an open crock by the soup station. He cracked the cellophane on a little packet and held it out to her on his palm.

  She took the packet of saltines, broke one and popped it into her mouth before the surprise set in. And then Willow felt her face begin to redden. She ate the other half of the cracker and began to feel a little steadier. She looked up into Travis’s eyes again, not knowing what she’d find there. It was bad enough that she had yet to make the decision of a lifetime. But now all her troubles were laid bare for him to see.

  But when she met his gaze, it was steady. “I guess my timing is pretty horrible, right? Trying to ask you out on a date while you’re trying not to puke.”

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  He leaned back against the stainless-steel prep counter. “I pay attention to you, Willow.” His eyes dipped to the floor for a moment, but then they came back steady. “Also, I’ve seen it before. It was pretty soon after my girlfriend started throwing up every morning that I ended up married to a woman who didn’t love me. Hopefully that won’t happen to you.”

  Willow’s eyes felt hot. Whenever she thought of the terrible conversation she’d had with Dane about her pregnancy, her face burned with shame, as if she’d actually done the things he’d accused her of doing. It didn’t make any sense at all. But the sting of his rejection was fierce. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” she told Travis, her voice unsteady. “Marriage is really low on the list of probable outcomes,” she said, attempting a smile.

  Travis blew out a breath. “You don’t sound at all happy. If it’s anyone I know…if someone’s being a jerk about it…I’m happy to try to talk some sense into him.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not ready. I can’t talk about it. Because I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “I won’t say another word. No—that’s not true. I have to say one more thing, and it’s this: it can happen to anyone. You know that, right?” His green eyes searched her face.

  Willow nodded, but her eyes filled with tears anyway. Because that truth was that she wasn’t at all sure that it could happen to anyone. It seemed like something that only happened to fuckups like her.

  “Aw, Willow,” Travis sighed. “And we are going to have dinner. If only because you look like you could really use a friend.” He stepped forward to wrap his arms around her. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”

  She returned the hug. “I apprecia
te it. I really do. You have no idea.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The phone company truck spent all morning in Willow’s driveway. Following Dane’s infection scare, it seemed Coach wasn’t taking any more chances. After the truck finally departed, another one rolled up the gravel, this one from UPS.

  Willow signed for a box addressed to Dane. But then she hesitated. There was no green Jeep in the driveway, which meant that Coach wasn’t home. Willow stood there in the driveway, considering her options. She couldn’t leave the box in the snow; that would be rude. The shipping label was from a medical facility in New Hampshire, so there was every likelihood that Willow was holding Dane’s brother’s personal effects.

  With a sigh, she walked up to the door. Maybe Coach and Dane had left together for a doctor’s appointment? She could just slip the box inside the door.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Dane was napping when Willow came in. The sound of the door opening stirred him from a pleasant dream. So for the first few seconds after he opened his eyes, he didn’t remember the ugly truth. All he saw was her pretty face, her graceful shape as she closed the door of the apartment against the cold. He might even have begun to smile.

  But when she turned her face toward him, there was fear on it. And then he was awake, and arranging his own expression into an unrevealing mask.

  “Hi,” she said cautiously. “This just came for you.”

  He saw her hesitate with the box, wondering where to put it. She looked like she was on the verge of dropping it and running for the door. So he blurted out his question. “Willow, did you have an abortion?”

  Her mouth fell open. “You did not just ask me that.”

  Dane swallowed. “I’m not trying to torture you, I just need to know.”

  Standing in front of him, she took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m not discussing it with you.”

  “That’s a mistake,” he said quietly. “Anyone who has a child of mine will live to regret it.”

  He watched her inhale carefully. “You made that point already,” she said, swallowing. “And even so, I honestly believed that after the shock wore off, you’d be more civilized. But since that’s not possible. I’m leaving now.”