When I woke up, several things were quickly apparent. My head ached, my mouth felt as if it was full of moss from the creek bed, my leg throbbed propped up on a pillow and Tennessee was asleep sprawled on top of me.
I stroked her hair, but she didn’t stir.
“Here,” Jonah murmured, handing me a glass of water. Propped up as I was, I drank it down greedily, then handed it back. “When did you return?” I asked, glancing toward him. He sat in the comfortable chair beside me, a book in his lap.
It was still light out, but from the soft light, the sun was setting. I must have slept several hours.
“You were awake for a minute when we arrived, but you were also full of whiskey.” He sat the glass upon a small table to his left. “Easy to see why you don’t remember. How’s your leg feel?”
“Sore. Thankfully, the horse wasn’t injured.”
If the animal had broken his leg in the prairie dog hole, he’d have been put down.
“The doctor said you have to stay off it for at least a month.”
I shifted my hip slightly, trying to get more comfortable, but didn’t want to risk waking Tennessee. I looked down at her sleeping face. Freckles were sprinkled like cinnamon sugar across her nose, her lips pink and full. She looked peaceful.
It felt good to hold her, to feel her resting upon me.
“I think I can find ways to amuse myself during that time,” I told him.
“Yes, plenty.” I was pleased he felt equally inclined, for that meant while I needed to heal, he had no intention of curbing our attentions to our wife. Mine, especially.
“You’re not dying,” he told me.
I frowned, then stiffened, remembering my heart troubles. “What?”
“Doctor Hiller checked you after you passed out. Listened to your heart.”
“But Doc Bruin—”
Jonah held up his hand. “Is too old for the job. Seems he confused you for James Kincaid.”
“Who the hell is that?” I asked, trying to remember to keep my voice low.
“An octogenarian over by Simms who died of a heart ailment. I think we need to see Doctor Hiller from now on,” he answered drily.
“He listened to my heart, then said it was bad.”
“He listened to your heart, then thought you were James Kincaid.” He shrugged. “While he is fit in body, it seems he is failing in mind.”
I wasn’t dying. The doctor had been mistaken. Fuck.
I sighed, a shaky smile spreading across my face. The relief made my not-sick heart pound, and I wanted to get up and dance around. Then I remembered my leg. “Hell, a broken leg’s a sure sight better than a bad heart.”
“Indeed. I know you wished to wed Kitten yourself. Does it bother you that she has my name?”
I looked to my friend, saw his open expression, his concern. The situation wasn’t going to change. He couldn’t un-marry her. She was Mrs. Jonah Wells, not Mrs. James Carr. But did it matter? She was sprawled across me. She had run into the house, worried about me, kissing my face. I’d made love to her. Fucked her. She was mine, regardless of name. This was what Bridgewater marriage was like, giving completely even beyond the boundaries of normal society. Thinking I was going to die offered some perspective.
“I admit it did. But it doesn’t now. There’s no question she’s ours. We have her heart as much as I’ve given her mine.”
“And I’ve given her mine,” Jonah added.
Tennessee woke then, lifting her head so our eyes met. She blinked, then smiled.
“Hello, Kitten.”