I had it bad for my husband.
Chapter fifteen
Spencer
Ilistened to Ara breathe all night. Every wheezing intake dragged itself across my raw worry with dull nails, and I slept fitfully in her weird, yellow armchair in the corner of the bedroom. By the time the sun rose again, I was certain she needed albuterol and possibly oxygen. Two doses of antibiotics and steroids hadn't made enough of a difference to convince me otherwise. Should she have been in a hospital? Without a doubt. Would she let me? Not a chance in hell.
Blinking away a shitty night of sleep, I dragged myself into her kitchen to find the coffee maker. She had a vast collection of fresh coffee beans, and a surprisingly sophisticated machine that ground the coffee and brewed it with the touch of a button, so I got that going.
What she didn't have was food. Of any kind. Her kitchen looked newer, designed to fit the long, narrow home with an elongated island and custom, navy-blue cabinets. The problem was, she didn't have anythinginthem. I found coffee creamer, sour cream, and dry baby carrots in her fridge, and her pantryhad some old pasta, half a bag of everything bagels, and three bags of cereal on its shelves.
"What does she eat?" I muttered, looking around with a box of bran cereal in my hand.
Okay, so clearly, a shopping trip was needed. And more wood in the stove because I couldn't feel my nose. Fortunately, the house had been updated, so the living room connected to the kitchen and dining area, and Arabella's room was right off the living room at the back of the house. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that the wood stove did an alright job keeping the small house warm. But getting wood from the snowy backyard was going to get old, so between sips of hot coffee, I went back and forth from the backyard to the living room, hauling armfuls of wood to stack next to the stove that shared a wall with Ara's room. I had it warm enough to make me sweat in no time, and then I peeked in on my patient again.
She was dead asleep, her lungs wheezing painfully, and her light eyebrows drawn together in discomfort. My heart gave an uncomfortable twinge. It was one thing to harbor feelings for a woman for years, suppressing them and doing my best to ignore them. It was another trial entirely to watch her suffer. It was bad enough that it had hardened my resolve to stay here.
My decision had been tenuous at best when I'd landed at the Salt Lake City airport with a signed lease in hand and a nebulous plan to show up and offer my assistance to Arabella. It was etched in stone, now. I wasn't going anywhere. Arabella might not be my real wife, but she was my very real family, whether she acknowledged it or not. I wasn't going to leave her to run herself into the ground again.
Assured that she was asleep and might not get into too much trouble, I zipped up my dark gray winter coat, pulled my keys from my pocket, and went through the front door to where I'd parked my rental. A young kid in a baseball cap nearly collidedwith me at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled up short, his wide, expressive eyes taking me in with surprise. "Oh, sorry."
"No worries." I started the car remotely, trying to hurry before Arabella woke up. "I'm Spencer—Arabella's friend. You must be her ranch hand."
"Jay," he said, holding out a calloused hand. I shook it, noting that his free hand tapped his thigh nervously. He met my gaze squarely, though, and I read a whole wealth of information in that look. He did not want me here. "Is Bella okay?"
Bella? Arahated itwhen people called her that. She must have had a soft spot for this idiot. "Arabella is pretty sick. I'm helping her recover. Do me a favor—if she makes her way out here somehow, send her back inside."
"She did seem pretty rough," Jay said, scratching under his hat to reveal a messy bunch of brown locks. He adjusted his ballcap again, glancing at the house. "She still sleeping?"
"Yes, and I don't want her disturbed." It was clear that being direct with this kid was the best way to go. If he hadn't picked up on silent cues that Ara gave off about something as simple as her name, then he either didn't care about people's opinions, or he was totally oblivious.
"Sure." He looked me up and down, his brows furrowing despite his clear attempt to keep it neutral. He looked at the house again. "Will do."
"If you need help with the ranch, I'll be available in a bit," I offered reluctantly. I didn't know shit about ranches, but if I was insisting that Ara stay in bed, then I'd probably need to fill in for her.
Jay looked one breath away from scoffing as he sized me up. "Sure."
With one last nod, I got in my SUV. My instincts tried to grab onto something about the ranch hand, but it slipped out of my grasp. I watched him climb on a four-wheeler and buzz awayfrom the house. Frowning, I put the car in reverse and left my suspicions behind.
I stopped by the pharmacy first, handing them a script for albuterol and purchasing a nebulizer. Then I followed my GPS into Park City proper, looking around the scenic mountain city as I searched for the commercial property I planned to lease. The buildings had been built at a steep incline following the slope of the towering mountains, and it reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Switzerland. I finally found it, and as I'd requested, the real estate agent met me there to finalize the lease.
The building wasn't huge, boasting just one small waiting room with a curved desk and three separate rooms in the back for my office, exam room, and storage room. It would be enough to set up my pediatric clinic and, hopefully, make a meaningful difference for those families. There was a lot to do before I got the clinic up and running, and I would have been lying if I'd said I wasn't nervous. It was a giant decision to move cities, quit my steady job as a neonatologist, and start my own practice. But I had resources, time, and motivation. I'd figure it out.
By the time I made it back to Arabella's ranch with a trunk full of groceries, I felt better about my decision. Dr. Rashawn would be a perfect replacement for me, and the NICU wouldn't suffer in my absence. The property I'd leased was in an ideal location, and the logistics were lining up well to get that started sometime in the spring as long as I could hire the right team members and an experienced office manager. The only uncertainty I had hangingover my head now was the feisty vet who might still find a way to thwart my efforts to help her.
I parked in the snowy driveway near the stone-faced front porch, and as I gathered the supplies from the pharmacy, movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. A hunched figure wrapped in tons of layers was dragging a black rubber hose across the backyard toward a four-wheeler outfitted with a plastic water tank on the back. ArabellaStupid-HeadRook was actually out of bed and trying to do chores. Unbelievable.
I slammed my car door, and she rounded a look my way. I could just make out a thin strip of her blue eyes between the thick hat and scarf, and she straightened defensively.Oh, you'd better get defensive, cowgirl. You are about to get roped and hogtied.I stomped over to her, wading through a foot of snow that seeped through my tennis shoes, and she turned her back to me again, dragging the hose over to the tank.
When I reached her, she held out a finger like that would do anything to stop me. "Spencer, do not—"
I scooped her over my shoulder in one fluid movement. The breath left her lungs in a wheeze, and she fell into a coughing fit, her small body convulsing over my shoulder as she gripped the back of my coat. And yet, I felt no remorse. "Wheezing people don't do chores in the snow, you little psycho." I clamped one arm around her legs, still holding the grocery bag in the other, and I stomped back to the house.
"Spencer," she croaked, but she didn't get another word out before I was up the stairs and then back inside the large, open living space. Her back door went directly into her living room, and I didn't break stride, taking her to the couch and then flopping her onto it. She flumped back in a bundle of winter gear, and then she groaned, closing her eyes. "My head."
"Oh, weird," I said, hands on my hips and towering over her. "Was that uncomfortable? I wonder if it's because you have a fever, low blood pressure, high heart rate, and dehydration." I scratched my beard. "Nah, that can't be it." She thrashed weakly, trying to get up amongst the thick layers of snow pants, sweatshirt, and bulky coat, so I pushed her back down easily. "Stay there, Arabella."
Breathing hard and audibly wheezing, she glared up at me. "Stop helping me."
