Summer Days (Fool's Gold #7)(66)
He heard a crash from the back of the house and hurried in that direction. He found Heidi leaning against the large table in the mudroom, her face pale and her eyes unfocused. Several stainless-steel bowls had fallen to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, even as he put his hand on her forehead. She was clammy and hot at the same time.
“I feel awful,” she admitted. “The room started swimming for a second.” She looked at the bowls. “Did I drop those?”
“You’re sick,” he told her.
She stared at him. “No, I’m fine.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Okay, maybe I need to throw up.”
“Come on, goat girl. We’re going to get you into bed.”
“But I have to move the goats to another field this afternoon and get the rest of the cheese to the cave.”
“I’ll take care of the goats and the cheese.” He put his arm around her, helping her to the door.
She stumbled along beside him, but when they reached the stairs, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Lightweight,” he murmured, as he picked her up in his arms and started up the stairs.
She shrieked and wrapped her arms around his neck. “What are you doing?” Then she moaned. “I really feel sick, Rafe.”
“Hang on. We’re nearly there.”
He got her to the bathroom just in time. She rushed to the toilet and dropped to her knees.
“Get out,” she yelled, waving frantically at the door, then turned back to the toilet.
He backed out just in time.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, looking pale and shaky. He guided her to her bedroom, quickly stripped off her clothes and pulled her nightgown over her head. He was aware of her soft skin, the shape of her breasts, and his expected reaction to the sight, but ignored it all. He might have flaws, but slobbering over a woman with the flu wasn’t one of them.
He helped her into bed.
He’d already pulled the shades and collected extra pillows. Now he sat next to her and stroked a damp washcloth across her face.
“You’re going to have a rough couple of days,” he told her. “I talked to my mom. She’s going into town for supplies. Ginger ale and whatever she needs to make her famous chicken soup.” He smiled at her. “She uses rice instead of noodles, so it’s easier to keep down.”
“I’ll be fine,” Heidi insisted, her eyes drifting closed. “Once I don’t feel like I’m dying.”
“You’re not going to die. Try to sleep.”
“I might need to throw up again.”
“I promise not to tie up the bathroom.”
Her lips curved into a slight smile. “Thank you.”
He pressed a kiss on her cheek. “That’s what friends do for each other.”
“Are we friends?” Her voice was low, a little sleepy and barely audible.
“I hope so, goat girl.”
* * *
HEIDI WAS VAGUELY AWARE of the passage of time, mostly because sometimes it was dark outside her window and sometimes it was light. She spent the first twenty-four hours puking her guts out and wishing she were dead, and the next twenty-four fighting a fever and wishing she were dead. Sometime after that, she slept for what felt like three weeks.
She knew people were coming and going, that a person she didn’t know examined her and proclaimed that, yes, she had the flu and to keep her hydrated. Then she slept some more.
Through it all, she was aware of Rafe. May and Glen took turns at her bedside, but mostly there was Rafe’s strong presence. She felt him wiping her down with a cool cloth and sometimes holding her hand. He’d brought in a TV and tuned it to the Home and Garden channel. One night she woke up to find him next to her in her bed. He was fully dressed, on top of the covers, his arm around her. She’d been surprised but comforted, and had snuggled close before going back to sleep.
Now she opened her eyes and saw light spilling into the room. The brightness suggested it was long past morning. She blinked, not sure what day it was, but feeling more like herself than she had in a long time.
“You’re back.”
She turned and saw Rafe standing in the doorway of her room. He looked good—tanned and strong, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. She frowned. Two bruises that looked suspiciously hoof-shaped marred both forearms.