Page 4 of Cherished by the Fearless Mountain Man (Lumberjacks of Timber Peak Valley #5)

Willa

It’s been a week since Doctor Willis reduced Brock’s visits to every other day, and I should be thrilled.

Really, I should. A patient healing ahead of schedule is exactly what every nurse wants to see.

It means I’m doing my job well, the treatment is working, and he’s going to make a full recovery without complications.

So why do I feel disappointed every time I look at my schedule and see that gap where his name used to be?

The logical part of my brain knows this is normal.

Standard protocol. When a wound is healing well and showing no signs of infection, there’s no reason for daily check-ins.

But the not-so-logical part of my brain misses our daily coffee talks.

Misses the way he’s started to open up, telling me stories about his personal life, and getting less and less grumpy with every passing day.

I miss the way his whole face changes when I manage to make him smile.

God, I even know which flavor of cupcakes he prefers and always make sure to bring one, just so I can see him smile.

I also know that’s exactly the kind of thinking that could get me in trouble.

“Earth to Willa?” Mrs. Reed’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. “Where were your thoughts just now? I bet with that Brock boy, right?”

My cheeks heat as I try to deny the truth. “Mrs. Reed, I was just—”

“Oh, don’t you try to fool me, dear. I know love when I see it.

You’ve been talking my ear off about one patient in particular.

Brock.” She gives me a knowing smile. “Speaking of which, I saw him yesterday at the hardware store. Walking around like nothing ever happened to him. Well, except for the limp and the tortured faces he made.”

I frown. “He was at the hardware store? Walking around? Are you sure it wasn’t his brother you saw? They look kind of alike.”

“I know those boys, Willa. They’re both attractive young men, sure, but I’m not blind or senile yet. I can tell them apart.”

My stomach drops. If Mrs. Reed is right, and it was Brock, that’s not good.

“When exactly did you see him, Mrs. Reed?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I was picking up some lightbulbs and there he was, carrying a bag of screws or some such thing.”

Yesterday. Two days after I last saw him. The day after I told him his wound was healing so well.

I wrap up things with Mrs. Reed right away.

Usually, I stay and talk after her blood sugar checks for her diabetes, but I need to head over to Brock’s to check on him.

Don’t I? Not because I miss him, but because I need to know if he’s okay.

I mean… Mrs. Reed said he was limping and making tortured faces. That doesn’t sound good.

I hastily tell her goodbye and get in my car. The drive to Brock’s cabin feels longer than usual, even though I’m probably driving faster than I should on these winding mountain roads.

After what feels like an eternity, I pull up to his cabin and grab my medical bag, my stomach churning with a mixture of professional concern and personal dread.

“It’s Willa,” I call out as I knock and open the door.

“Come in,” he calls back, but his voice sounds different. Strained.

I find him on the couch, and one look at him tells me everything I need to know. He looks guilty as hell, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and he’s sweating.

“I know we don’t have an appointment today, but I needed to see how you were doing. Mrs. Reed told me you were at the hardware store yesterday.”

His jaw tightens. “Did she now?”

“She did.” I sit down next to him, pulling on my gloves. “Want to tell me what you were doing there?”

“Just… picking up a few things.”

“Brock.” I give him my best stern nurse look. “What did you do?”

He finally meets my eyes. “I was feeling good. Really good. And I thought maybe I could start getting back to normal, you know? Just small stuff.”

“What kind of small stuff?”

“Fixing a loose board on the porch. Cleaning out the gutters. Restacking some firewood that was falling over.” He says it like he’s confessing to murder.

“Brock.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “You cleaned gutters? That requires climbing a ladder.”

“It was a short ladder.”

“There’s no such thing as a short ladder when you have a healing leg laceration. Come on, let me see the wound.”

He shifts uncomfortably as I carefully peel back the bandage, and what I see makes my heart sink. The wound that had been healing so beautifully two days ago now looks angry and inflamed. The edges are red and slightly pulled apart, and there’s more drainage than there should be.

“Is it bad?” He leans forward to look, and I can see the worry in his eyes now.

“It’s not good. Some of these stitches are under strain, and there’s increased inflammation. See these red streaks? That means the infection is spreading.”

His face goes pale. “Spreading where?”

“Through your tissue. And if we don’t get this under control…” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to scare him, even though he looks quite fearless for a man who just heard he’s got a nasty infection.

I take off a glove and press the back of my hand to his forehead. “You’re running a fever. How long have you been feeling warm?”

“Since this morning, I guess. Maybe last night,” he confesses.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me? Brock, this is literally my job. This is exactly what you’re supposed to call me for.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking miserable. “I hate being useless. I hate sitting around doing nothing while there’s work to be done. And I was feeling so much better.”

“It was kind of reckless.”

“I’m fine, Willa. Don’t worry about me,” he insists, but even as he says it, he makes one of those tortured faces Mrs. Reed told me about.

“No, you’re not. And I’m not comfortable leaving you alone tonight.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. “What if your fever spikes? What if you aggravate the surgical site even further and don’t realize it until it’s too late?”

His eyes widen slightly. “Willa, you don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do. Either I stay, or you go to the clinic and stay there for observation. Your choice.”

For a moment, we stare at each other. He might be stuck on the couch, but everything about him speaks to the fearless mountain man he’s rumored to be. Solid, unshakable. Stubborn.

“I have overnight supplies in my car,” I continue, trying to sound clinical. “It’s standard procedure for post-surgical patients who’ve overexerted themselves.”

It’s not entirely a lie. I do have supplies. Whether it’s standard procedure to camp out in a patient’s cabin is debatable.

“I don’t need babysitting.”

“I’m not here to babysit,” I reply. “I’m here to make sure you don’t end up unconscious on the floor.”

Finally, he sighs. “There are spare blankets in the hallway closet.”

“So you’re okay with me staying?”

He shrugs and gives me a small smile. “I don’t want to get in the way of standard procedure, Willa. The last thing I want is for you to get into trouble.”

“Great, it’s settled then.” I get up to retrieve the bag with extra supplies from my car.

Part of me is ecstatic about staying, but I also feel a twinge of guilt. I just lied to him about this being standard procedure, and I hate being dishonest. As soon as I’m back inside, I’m telling him the truth. He could still send me away. He could opt to go to the clinic after all.

It’ll be his choice, but at least it will be an honest one. Yeah, it’s for the best. So why am I afraid of his answer?