Page 32 of Saving the Rain

I know it doesn’t make any sense.

But at least I’m not sticking around to watch today. It was only a coincidence I saw him during the brief moment I was there after driving Tessa to the arena. She needed a ride, and will go home withOscar later this evening. There’s no denying a pregnant woman when she asks for help, batting those eyelashes my way and shoving a coffee into my hands.

I’ve got shit to do at the ranch. I’ve got nothing more planned than to get my ass back to Crimson Ridge and sort out the horses for the day. To check in on the cattle. You know, to do my fucking job.

Who fucking cares what Kayce Wilder does. I certainlydon’t.

Chapter 13

I’m jostled from the comfort of sleep by a persistent beeping. It starts off far away. Somewhere in the distance. I try to shove it from my mind.

Can’t I just carry on in this cozy, dreamless place?

It’s soft here. Feels nice.

Everything is usually sohard.

My eyes are glued shut. I’m fucking tired, man. All I want to do is sleep and sleep and then sleep some more.

But that goddamn beeping keeps on coming at me like a train, and it’s only getting louder. It’s more demanding. Blasting through, clawing and grabbing at my attention, so instead, I turn my head to bury my face in the pillow. No way did I set an alarm clock, definitely not one that sounds like this annoying piece of shit.

“Mr. Wilder? Can you hear me?” A gentle, male voice drifts in. Close by. Too close to make any sense because why the fuck am I hearing voices when there’s only me and the horses and the dang cattle on the top of Devil’s Peak?

Why is someone here?

I’m always alone.

“Mr. Wilder.” That disembodied voice calls out again, and this time, I reluctantly creak one eyelid open.

It takes an extreme amount of effort just to focus. The world in front of me swims and whirls with enough sway to it the whole situation makes me kinda nauseous.

Rustling sheets accompany the scrape of starched fabric against my bare skin. I’m blinking rapidly now, my brain starting to thread together what in the fuck is going on. Grasping at memories I know are floatingright therebut can’t seem to reel in.

“We’re just gonna take a look at your vitals now that you’re awake.” That same male voice soothes me from a spot beside my bed.

Finally, I drop out of dream-space and thud into reality.

Not my bed. A hospital bed. I’m in a fucking hospital.

Although there’s no pain, not that I can tell. In fact, I feel fuckinggood. Like I could get up and jog outta here, if my legs didn’t feel so heavy and my head didn’t feel so numb.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Wilder?”

It takes a couple of attempts to wet my mouth before speaking, which results in someone—the guy who I don’t recognize, but now see has short dark hair, glasses, and blue scrubs—pressing a straw to my lips, encouraging me to sip some water.

Fuck. That’s the best goddamn drink of water I’ve ever had in my life.

“Th—thanks,” I croak.

“How is your pain?” he says, picking up a clipboard from the foot of my bed.

Pain? Pretty sure I’ve only got this gooey, pleasant feeling rolling around my body. Definitely no pain going on.

I run my tongue over my cracked lips.

“That’s good,” he hums absently, circling something on the chart.

Oh, fuck. Am I talking without knowing it? “Did I just say that out loud?”