Page 49

Nate

I slide off the rump of the horse and stagger, hip smarting in pain so sharp my vision wavers.

Fingers shaking violently with cold, despite the borrowed Carhart I’m wearing, I pat the horse in thanks.

Mr. Paulson steps out on the porch, raising a hand.

I lift my own in reply, too tired to yell a greeting.

At the sound of an engine, I turn to watch my uncle’s truck fly down their gravel drive, dust kicking up around it and rocks pinging off the side.

He’s gunning it, as though it’s a highway and not someone’s driveway.

“Thanks,” I tell the man who let me ride double behind him.

“No problem,” he says, nodding toward Mr. Paulson, before turning his horse toward the barn. I take a step toward the truck, wanting to see Marcos and knowing he’s inside.

Uncle Jes’ truck isn’t even fully stopped, before the passenger door is flung open and Marcos emerges. Too tired and cold and in pain to do anything else, I open my arms and wait for him. I’ve barely caught a glimpse of frantic brown eyes before he’s pressed against me.

Instead of barreling into me the way I’d been expecting him to, he’s as gentle as though he’s hugging an infant.

My heart beats sluggishly in my chest and I close my eyes for a second, breathing him in.

I can feel his hands clenched tightly in the fabric of the jacket, low on my back, as he hugs me.

He lets go much sooner than I’d like, but when I try to grab him back he only snatches my hands from the air.

“Come on,” he says, voice tight and expression more serious than I’ve ever seen it. I try to smile at him, but my facial muscles don’t seem to be working. I’m too tired to try. He tugs me gently along, both of my hands clasped between his. “Come on. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine! I’m sorry I’m late,” I tell him, and he makes a distressed noise. Jesper rounds the truck and joins us on the passenger side. He puts a hand on the back of my head, running it down my hair to my neck and squeezing. I smile. “Hey, Uncle Jes.”

“Let’s change those clothes quick, kid. You’re soaking wet,” he tells me, as Marcos tugs down the zipper of the Carhart jacket.

I’m grateful for his help—my fingers feel like sausages and I probably couldn’t have managed on my own.

I’m at the point where I’m simply too tired to move; too tired to pay close attention to any words they’re saying.

Marcos silently removes my filthy and sodden clothes, tossing them into the bed of the truck and helping me into fresh ones handed to him by my uncle.

In less than two minutes, I’m changed into dry clothes.

I want to make a joke about being naked on the driveway, but can’t get it up.

Too exhausted to do anything more than stand here, I only manage a small smile for Marcos when he meets my eye again.

“Hi,” I greet him. He puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me, which, honestly, does far more than the dry clothes in helping me feel better. Now, if I could just crawl into bed and sleep all day, I’d be fine.

I struggle climbing up into the truck, pain flaring to life in my chest and pelvis.

I clamp my mouth closed to keep any sounds from escaping, and settle in as gingerly as I can.

Uncle Jes has the heat blasting, and fiddles with the vents so that they’re pointing at me while Marcos clips my seat belt into place.

“I’m fine,” I tell them, and am ignored.

My uncle is talking but the words don’t make sense to me, and it’s hard to make myself pay attention.

I lean against Marcos as we turn around in the driveway, and start heading home.

I don’t know why I’m shaking so badly—I’m not even that cold. I close my eyes.

“Stay awake,” Marcos tells me, nudging my leg.

“I’m really tired.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But keep your eyes open. Once you’re warmed up, you can go to sleep, okay?”

“Horse fell,” I tell them, opening my eyes quickly enough to see Jes nod. “Ran off before I’d even stood back up. We need to find her.”

“She’s at the barn. No worse for wear other than a nasty scrape and likely some strained muscles. I’ll call the vet out to check the pair of you out.”

I laugh, but stop quickly as pain lances through my ribs. Ouch.

“Are you hurt?” Marcos asks again. I look at him, willing my tired brain to focus. He’s so lovely and handsome and serious. God I love him. “Nate. Are you hurt? Or just cold? ”

“I’m not even that cold,” I argue, and the truck picks up speed as though my uncle put his foot down. “My leg hurts a little bit, and my ribs. But it’s not bad. I just landed weird, that’s all.”

Marcos’ brow is still pinched in concern, and he’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before. I frown, noticing how pale his face is beneath the deep brown of his skin.

“Hey,” I whisper, “I’m all right.”

Marcos propels me into my uncle’s house the moment we arrive, and leads me upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms. He and Jes are talking to one another, but they’re going too fast for me to catch anything.

They might as well be speaking another language, for all I’m able to understand.

I am so tired. Closing the door behind us, he once more tugs the Carhart off, dropping it on the floor before doing the same with my shirt and jeans.

When his own shirt follows, I find out that I’m not yet dead enough to not get excited by the sight of him.

“What—” I start, but cut off as he steers me toward the bed and under the blankets.

Marcos sits with his back to the headboard and directs me between his legs until I’m settled back against him the way I’d done when we were camping.

My skin tingles where his warm chest is pressed to my back.

Wrapping the comforter tight around us, he rests his hand over my heart and rubs.

Sighing, I let my weight fall fully on him. This isn’t so bad.

“Nate, are your eyes open?”

I open them. “Yes.”

“Are you warm?”

“I’m fine. This is nice.”

He continues rubbing at my chest. After a few minutes, my skin begins to prick as though someone is stabbing me with tiny needles. It takes another handful of minutes for the brain fog to lift enough that I’m able to figure out what he’s doing.

“If I lose a finger to hypothermia, I’m going to be so mad,” I joke.

“You won’t. Are you feeling better? You’re not slurring so badly anymore.”

I was slurring? “I’m actually colder now than I was before,” I admit.

“Good. Your uncle told me skin-to-skin contact was the best way to warm someone up safely. He said the fact that you weren’t cold was a bad thing.”

“I was fucking freezing last night,” I tell him, and his arms tighten incrementally around me.

I’m not feeling quite as tired as I was before, although the return of sensation in my skin is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

It hurts. It hurts so badly that it’s distracting me from what I suspect is a broken rib.

“I know,” he whispers, face turned into my hair. “That damn horse came back to the barn without you. I was terrified.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “And I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

Marcos gives a strangled huff of laughter, as though he thinks I’m trying to make him feel better by joking around. I’m not joking, though, not even a little bit.

I’m not scared of the dark, or being alone in the wilderness, but even I have to admit it wasn’t an enjoyable night.

Out in the woods where the only light comes from the moon, the night can feel oppressive and weighty.

The yipping of coyotes had sounded sinister and dangerously close.

I’d been afraid, freezing cold, and in pain; with nothing else to do to occupy my mind, I’d thought about Marcos all night.

I’d thought about the deep, warm brown of his eyes as he’d stood next to my horse and looked up at me with a hand on my leg.

I’d thought about the promise I’d made to be home in time for dinner.

Yeah, the situation had been scary and my body had hurt, but the broken promise had felt worse than all the rest.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, just as a light knock is tapped against the door. It opens a second later and Uncle Jes walks in, two steaming bowls of soup in his hands and water bottles tucked under his arms. If he’s surprised or embarrassed by the way Marcos and I are sitting, he doesn’t show it.

“Eat both of these,” he tells me. “And put these under the blanket with you so they’re warmer when you drink them. Warm things only, right now, so we can get that internal temperature up.”

Marcos excavates one of his arms from our blanket cocoon and takes the water bottles. Downstairs, the landline rings. Jes touches my hair briefly, before leaving the room and closing the door gently behind himself once more. Marcos’ hand resumes rubbing my chest.

By the time I drink the bottles of water and eat both bowls of soup, I’m warm and once more struggling to keep my eyes open.

Marcos’ skin feels like an inferno against mine, as though he’s my own personal heating pad.

I’m desperate for the contact to continue, but I also know he’s likely well beyond his limit for the day.

“Do you want me to move?” I ask him.

“No. ”

“Are you sure? I’m warm enough.” He ducks his head and presses his face into my neck.

“No,” he repeats a touch more firmly.

“I hope Annabelle is okay.”

“I hope Annabelle dies,” Marcos replies crossly, making me laugh. I cut off with a gasp, remembering that laughing fucking hurts.

“You need to go to the hospital now that you’re not in danger of hypothermia,” Marcos says immediately.

“Closest hospital is two hours away.” He makes a strangled noise in his throat. “I don’t need one anyway. This isn’t the first time I’ve fallen from a horse.”

“Nate—”

“Really, Marcos, I’m fine. Just sore and going to be bruised as all hell probably. But I’m okay.”