11
JONAH
We rode at a breakneck pace to James’ house. Our house. I had to hope Abel’s mood had changed and he would be a congenial host. While Tennessee had boldly stated she had two husbands, I also hoped Abel wouldn’t speak poorly of a Bridgewater marriage to the sisters. They were just like Tennessee, curious and overeager. But that wasn’t a problem right now, especially since it could all be moot.
James could be dying even now. Dead.
Fuck, I didn’t want this to be happening. I didn’t want that old quack of a doctor to be right.
I glanced at Tennessee riding beside me. She sat a saddle beautifully, had no problem keeping up. Her bonnet dangled from the ribbon, her hair in a braid down her back, but long tendrils blew back in the wind. I only saw fierce determination on her face.
“Tell me about James’ heart,” she called, not looking my way.
“I don’t know much other than that he was sick last week with a summer cold. Abigail had summoned the doctor and the man found a defect in his heart.”
“You knew and didn’t tell me?”
“I only found out the other day myself.”
“That’s why… oh god, that’s why you married me as well.” She turned to look at me, but I didn’t answer. She knew how I felt, I’d told her only a few hours ago. I would not debate it now.
Perhaps she felt the same way, for she asked, “Is it bad?”
I nodded, although I really had no idea.
“The doctor is old enough to be my grandfather, and I’m not young. I doubt his fitness for his position, potentially scaring the daylights out of his patients with potentially false information.”
“But not in this case,” Tennessee replied.
It didn’t appear so. I only wished the ranch was closer. I understood now why James had asked me to be Tennessee’s husband. If we found he had died, she would not be alone. She needed someone, and I wanted it to be me. But I also wanted it to be James. She wanted James as well, loved him, I believed. If it were just she and I, something would be missing. Our marriage would not be the same because our marriage was me, James and Tennessee. Together.
Tennessee swung herself down from the saddle before I could assist her and ran up the steps of the front porch. “James!”
The door was wide open to the good weather and a man came out. Not James.
He held his hand up and Tennessee came to a jerky stop, her breathing ragged.
“Ma’am. I’m Doctor Hiller.”
This wasn’t the usual town doctor who’d seen James previously. I’d never laid eyes upon Doctor Hiller before, but he was young—younger than me—with a calm demeanor and steady hands.
“James,” she repeated.
I took the steps at a slower pace, but was just as anxious.
He gave a small smile and stepped to the side. “In the parlor.”
Tennessee ran past and I followed, ignoring the doctor.
There, on the couch, was James. He was lying sideways, head propped up on a pillow, his foot on another.
He was alive, with what appeared to be a broken leg.
Tennessee dropped to the floor by his head, cupped his cheek, murmured his name, kissed his face.
“Kitten, I like you kneeling before me, but my cock’s not in your mouth.”
The powerful scent of whiskey filled the air. James wasn’t dead, he was drunk.