Bayou Born(35)

She could have died today.

The fact that she survived made her grateful for each breath she took. Her heart ached because of all the worry she’d caused her family. And, beyond all else, she had to make things right with her sister. She had the power to change the relationship with Camilla, maybe even convince her to come home.

Tucking the seatbelt under her arm, she wiped her eyes, then quickly grabbed the strap again. The feel of it against her body produced a newfound panic.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” James asked in a calm low voice. The tone of voice a man might use when he was scared a woman might fall apart. “Your parents? Sister? Someone?”

“No...no one. The closest family in distance to me is my brother. He’s in college down in Gainesville. I can manage this on my own. I expect to be good as new in a few days.”

“Guess brothers aren’t much help, are they?”

“For some things, but not this.”

“I’ll be happy to call your parents. I think someone needs to stay with you.”

“No. No, thank you. Really, I can manage.” How could she explain that she had to do this on her own? Since she wasn’t dying, this was a chance to prove she was capable and strong. She fell apart when Steven betrayed her—she wouldn’t do that today. Though, her inner child was wailing for her momma.

James’ car approached her house. She couldn’t wait to get inside to rest. Squinting, she shielded her eyes from the evening sun’s rays that lit the sky. Above the treetops, pink, silver, lavender, and gold reflected off the clouds. A beautiful, yet ordinary day. Her day had been anything but. Obviously, she had not one drop of clairvoyance in her body. If she’d had any inkling about the twists and turns that faced her, would she have bothered to get out bed that morning? Everyone gets to be an ostrich and hide their head in the sand sometimes, right?

The painter’s truck parked at the curb had the windows rolled down and the radio cranked with the base booming, rattling glass. The vibration beat in her head as though the pounding originated there. She winced. Nausea hit hard. Bill ran up when James opened the car door for her.

“Miss Lind! Are you okay?”

“Yes, but, would you turn your radio down?”

“Oh, sure!” Bill said, and then disappeared.

“Take it slow,” James cautioned as she stepped back to close the car door. “Where are your keys? I’ll get the front door unlocked.”

Bill returned and danced around her like a nervous puppy. “Did you hear? It’s on the news! The accident. You’re a hero—well, not a guy hero, but a girl hero.”

“What?” She leaned on James for support as she dug in her purse and pulled out her keys.

“Yeah, the DEA and local Feds, they found the guy—the pilot—in the woods. Got the dogs out on him and everything. The pilot is a drug smuggler. It’s on the news. You’re famous!”

“Ah, thanks, Bill. I need to go inside.” She couldn’t compute half of what he said.

When she moved, pain zigzagged through her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. The doctors said she’d be bruised and sore, but they never said the pain would bring her to her knees. The meds weren’t doing their job. Or maybe their full punch required more time to work?

She sagged against James, who scooped her up and carried her. The jarring from each step made her head hurt more, but if she had to walk the twenty feet, it would take her all night.

“Hey, Bill. Make yourself useful. Unlock the door for Miss Lind,” James told the painter. “Keys are in my back pocket.”

Bill grabbed the keys and raced ahead. He swung the door open wide. “I stayed around to see how you are. I’ll be back to finish painting tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she mumbled before Bill took off again.

“The couch?” James asked. “It’s warm in here. Do you want the air conditioner on?”

“Bedroom first. Yes, A/C. Tea, please. It’s in the kitchen.”

James placed her gingerly on her bed, then headed back down the hall. She heard the air conditioning click on before he entered the kitchen. She rose slowly and inched her way to the dresser. Her reflection in the mirror confirmed that no one looked good in a hospital dressing gown. She’d used it to cover her bloodstained blouse, it could be a wardrobe prop for a zombie movie.

She managed to stand, undress, and then tossed the wadded up blouse into the corner near her closet. Carefully, she pulled on yoga pants and eyed her bed like a kid eyeing a candy counter.

Maybe the painkillers and muscle relaxers had kicked in? That could be an explanation for her desire to have James undress her, and then crawl into bed beside her. Under other conditions, modesty would prevent her from asking for his help. The drug-induced relaxation wiped away inhibitions. In fact, she could make a sound argument that he must cuddle with her, the warmth of his hands on her body would calm her nerves. He had a healing touch.

In slow motion, she pulled on a loose fitting shirt, an old cotton one of her fathers. She left a couple of buttons undone at the top and the bottom. Taking a step, she wobbled in her bedroom doorway.

“Let me help you,” James said.

“Don’t pick me up,” she begged.

He walked her step-by-step to the living room, allowing her to take the time she needed. She sat slowly, with his support, at one end of the couch, then lifted her legs, stretching them out long. James disappeared down the hall. He returned with pillows from her bed.

“There’s a quilt in the hall closet.” She pointed. Homesickness trumped bravery. She needed a reminder of home. Comfort. The handmade quilt had been a gift from Great Grandmother Marie. The faded squares sewn together, with their washed-in softness, would ease her unseen pains.

“I raided your kitchen. Here’s some chicken broth and tea.” James set a cookie sheet with two cups of steaming liquid on the table in front of her. “I do pretty well as a cook.”

He must have seen her wince and thought it was because of his offerings.

“Would you like something else?”

“No. Thanks. This is fine. Tea for me. “

Wearing a curious expression, James cocked his head and looked at her as though he contemplated something.

Had she spoken her reply or just heard the words in her head? The drugs provided an “out-of-control” sensation, and if she ever thought to audition for a role in Dr. Who, she could call on this experience for help.

“I’m just killing pain with humor. Or maybe killing humor with drugs? I don’t know which.”

Shaky, certain that at any moment might she break down, she fought to hold back tears. She wanted her mother, wanted comfort and support, but she had to navigate a recovery without leaning on family. She could do it. The emotional need pounding in her heart was not a life or death matter. Grown women weren’t supposed to cry for their mommas, right?

Sitting in the chair across from the couch, James rested his forearms on his thighs and scrutinized her. She shifted and pulled the quilt up to her neck, then reached for the cup of tea.

“I appreciate your kindness. You don’t have to stay. I’ll be all right.”

“I could call Sadie. She’d come and stay with you. If you’d feel more comfortable with a woman.”

“No. I can’t ask her. It would be awkward.”

“Then, I’ll stay.”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Okay. Be fine with me here.” He laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable in the chair. “Here are the facts. You’re on drugs right now that reduce your ability to think clearly. Also, they can impair your physical abilities. I won’t leave. We can’t have you drown in a tub or fall down, knock your head, and bleed out.”

Her bottom lip trembled. She took a sip from the cup, then drew a ragged breath. “I keep thinking that I could have died.”

Immediately, James rose. He motioned for her to make room for him on the couch. He sat, then scooped her up and held her. He cradled her with one arm and with the other, wrapped the quilt around her back, tucking her into a cocoon with him, her head on his chest.

“It’s okay to cry, Branna.” His words were almost a whisper.

Her body started to shake. Tremors passed through her, but she fought against the tears.

“Let go,” James urged.

Her first wail sounded foreign to her ears. The next few came in a wave. She tried to catch her breath between each raspy sob. Inhaling was more like hiccupping.

“I’m here. I’m here,” James whispered.

His words became a healing mantra as he gently rocked her. She cried until she was cried out. The heat of his body soothed her. When the tears finally stopped, she snuggled close and rested her head on his shoulder. Not many men could handle a woman’s tears as he had. She didn’t care if he thought she was childish or not, as long as he continued to hold her.