Waiting for Wyatt (Red Dirt #1) (15 page)

Wyatt’s fingers burned into my arm. It wasn’t the kind of burn that I wanted to feel from him. I loosened his grip on my wrist. “Have you taken any medicine?”

“Yes. No. Or yes. I-I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Wyatt. Have you taken any medicine?”

“I don’t think so.” His eyes closed. “I thought about it, but I don’t think I did.”

“Do you have a thermometer?”

“No,” he muttered. I put my palm on his forehead again, feeling the scorching heat. His fever was really high. My fingers trailed over his cheeks. They had a couple of days’ worth of stubble. Wyatt had been sick longer than he was letting on. His eyes stayed closed as I touched him. He
really
must be sick.

“Do you have any Tylenol?”

“Bathroom.” The word crackled from his pale lips.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered. “Oh, have you eaten?”

“I-I . . . maybe. I’m not hungry.”

“Okay. I’ll just get the medicine.”

Going to his bathroom, I opened the first drawer, finding shaving cream and razors. I opened the second. It was easy to spot the red bottle in his perfectly organized medicine stash.

I moved to the linen closet next to the tub, which had a few towels, washcloths, and a clean set of sheets. They were folded like Wyatt worked at the bed store. He was painstakingly detailed in every level of his life. Taking out a washcloth from the closet, I ran cold tap water on the brown fabric and squeezed it out.

In the kitchen, I flipped open the pantry doors. His shelves were virtually bare, containing only a few items, including three boxes of Cap’n Crunch, a jar of peanut butter, and a loaf of bread.

Opening the refrigerator, I found milk for the cereal, three kinds of jam, a package of bologna, and another of cheese. I opened the freezer, discovering ten packages of hot dogs.

This was disgusting. I wouldn’t be surprised if his digestive system was revolting against him, making him deathly sick.

Opening the next cabinet, I found a few plastic Eskimo Joe’s cups and one that said Texas Westmiller University. I studied the odd, out-of-place item mixed with the others before grabbing the maroon and gray cup from the shelf. After filling it with tap water, I made my way back to his bedroom. I found Wyatt resting amidst the tangled sheets just as I’d left him.

“Hey, I need you to sit up.”

His eyes flipped open slightly like I’d surprised him. He scooted up against the pillows. It was slow and painful and required all of his energy. Sitting next to him on the bed, I held the pills up. “It’s okay. Just try to get these down.”

His green eyes gazed back at me as I pushed the pills against his mouth. My fingers brushed across his soft lips before I pulled my hand away. I put the cup against his mouth and Wyatt took a few swallows. His eyes flickered to the maroon and gray letters in my hand. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. Yet I knew from his reaction that cup meant something.

Pushing the brown hair off his forehead, I situated the washcloth across his skin. My fingers trailed over the stubble on his cheeks.

“It’s cold,” he mumbled.

“It needs to be. You really should try to take a cold shower too. It will help with the fever.”

He contemplated my words before muttering in his raspy voice, “The questions weren’t enough? You’re trying to see me naked now?”

“No.” I smiled at him. “Tonight, I’m your nurse. That’s all.”

“I think you’d be a good nurse,” he muttered. “You should finish school.”

“So you actually listened when I was talking?”

“Yeah.” He smiled faintly. “You told me that first day when you came back. You kept talking about stuff. Asking me questions. You wouldn’t be quiet. Talking and talking, over and over again, driving me crazy.”

I laughed under my breath. “That Tylenol must already be working. You’re back to being a jerk.”

“I wasn’t being a jerk. You drive me crazy, Emma. I want to hate it, but I like it.” His eyes drifted closed, but the smile lingered on his lips. Reaching for my hand, he wrapped his fingers around mine, pulling it against his chest in a loose grasp. “Your hand is so small. I feel like I’m gonna crush it.”

“You won’t crush it,” I whispered.

His eyes remained closed as a wry smile brushed his lips. “I think the same thing about you sometimes too. You’re so tiny. I’d crush you.”

The shock came in small waves as his words registered. I think Wyatt was talking about sex in his feverish semi-coma, which meant I probably should’ve insisted on taking him to the doctor.

“Maybe you should try to eat something. I didn’t see much in there, but Cap’n Crunch. But I could go get you something in town?”

His fingers ran over my palm and circled around my wrist, each touch radiating up my arm. My pulse beat strong under his hand. With his eyes still closed, I heard him whisper, “I like Cap’n Crunch.”

“I know,” I muttered, feeling the burn of his feverish hand as he brushed my skin. His face stayed relaxed, his eyes closed.

Even in his sickness, I was attracted to Wyatt Caulfield. I didn’t care if I were in bed for days because of this visit. His guard was down. It was down, and I was getting closer to him.

“I need you to do something.” His eyes opened for a minute and bore into my face like he could read all of those thoughts floating around in my head. All the thoughts of how I would kiss him, even if it meant getting the flu. “I haven’t fed the dogs. I need you to do it.”

“Gus and Gatsby?”

“No. All of them. Put twice the amount in there. It will hold them over. And there’s a list of medicine on my desk. It’s in a locked case.” Wyatt let go of my hand and pointed next to his dresser. “The key is in my drawer.”

I scooted to that side of his bed. Reaching for the handle, it was strange to think I was about to rifle through his nightstand. Not that I was trespassing, since he was right there. But Wyatt was allowing me into another layer of his life.

I glanced over at him before pulling it open. Stress lines formed around his eyes, and then he closed them again. He was letting go. Wyatt was giving me permission to look inside his personal stuff.

My fingers tugged the metal handle. The inside of the drawer contained two packages of cough drops, a worn-out Bible with Wyatt
inscribed in faded letters on the bottom right corner, and a key ring. Lifting the set from the bottom, I shut the nightstand.

“It’s the smaller one that doesn’t look like a door key. The case with the meds is in the bottom right drawer of my desk in the office. I keep it locked up because there’s pain meds in there. There’s a list with it. Tells you who gets what.”

“Okay,” I muttered, getting up from the side of his bed.

I let Gus and Gatsby out in front of the trailer to use the bathroom before going to the kennel. It took close to an hour to feed, water, and dish out medicine to all the residents. I played with Charlie for a few minutes. He covered my cheeks with wet slobber. I loved that little dog with everything in me. Putting Charlie back in his kennel, I pulled out my phone to send Blaire a text.

“Wyatt is sick. I’m going to be here late.”

I braced for a slew of protests, but all I got was a simple,
“Okay.”

I made one last stop by Cye’s pen before I returned to the trailer. Crawling on my hands and knees, I placed a bone a few feet from him. The tortured face of the poor dog broke my heart. He tolerated me at this point, poking into his life. Cye didn’t embrace my actions, but at least he didn’t run.

I walked the trail in the moonlight. Opening the door, I found Gus and Gatsby waiting together at the entrance. “Don’t worry. I brought you some too.”

I put the food in their bowls. After washing my hands, I peeked around the corner in Wyatt’s room. He was lying against the pillows. His hair was a little damp and the covers were pulled up to his waist. Kicking off my flip-flops, I stepped softly across the old, shag carpet. Wyatt opened his eyes. “Are they okay?”

“Don’t worry. Everyone is fine.” I sat next to him on the bed. He stared at me, his eyes blinking at half the rate. Placing my palm against his forehead, I felt the temperature of his skin, which seemed to have decreased to a shade less than scalding hot. Maybe the Tylenol was working. “You take a cold shower?”

“Yeah.”

“You feel any better?”

“A little.” His voice grated on the words. “Diana was sick. She must have given it to me.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

His face tensed up. “I wasn’t blaming her.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t say you were.” I moved my hand away, seeing his eyes flash something I couldn’t read. The stubble on his cheeks reflected slightly in the lamp light. I wanted to run my fingers over it again. I swallowed hard. “So . . . um . . . how often does Diana come out here?”

“Once a week. Usually on Sunday, but she came Friday after you’d left. She had plans.”

“So I could meet her sometime? If I came on Sunday?” I wanted to talk to someone else who knew Wyatt. Maybe it would give me some clue into his
why
. Because a big
why
existed with this broken man. Why was he hiding out here? Why was he in so much pain? Why was he afraid of me?

“You have met her. Diana sent you out here.”

“The lady with the rescue in Stillwater was Diana?”

“Yes. Diana is more of an extravagant dog foster with a kennel license. She volunteers with Red Dirt Claws. She keeps some of the dogs here and tries to place them through the rescue.”

“So she could’ve just taken Charlie from me that day,” I muttered. “Instead, she sent me out here to see you on purpose?”

“Yes.” His eyes were tired and plagued with fever. There wasn’t much fight in him tonight, and it wasn’t right that I was using it to my advantage. But this new piece of information was very intriguing.

“Why did she send me out here?”

“Do you really have to ask that question?”

“She wanted us to meet?”

“Yes.” He let out a deep breath, coughing a little. “She thinks I should be more open with you. Tell you things.”

“What things?” That statement caught me off guard.

“Please . . . don’t ask me anymore questions tonight.” The sadness came over his eyes first and then dipped across his cheeks down to those lips. It extended into his shoulders as he sunk into the pillows. I felt incredibly guilty, seeing how visibly he was crushed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. And then I did something I figured would make him angry. I scooted up beside Wyatt on the bed, pushing myself next to his body. My shoulder touched his shoulder. My side touched his side. I nestled myself against him, bracing for his reaction. His body moved as he took a ragged breath, and then Wyatt rested his head against my shoulder. I felt his hair against my bare arm.

And then I froze as he took it a step further. He leaned over, placing his head across my lap, resting his cheek against my thigh. Hesitating, I fought the urge to touch him until I gave into the feeling. I ran my fingers through his soft brown hair. I smelled the faint scent of shampoo.

His hard body relaxed against my tiny one as I touched him. It felt good being this close to Wyatt. I smiled to myself, savoring every second of this moment because tomorrow might be a different story. But I didn’t care. Tonight, he was going to let me comfort him.

Looking over on his nightstand, I saw a book sitting open. “You’re reading
Call of the Wild
?”

“Yeah. Have you ever read it?”

“Actually, I did. About six years ago for a book report.”

“You should experience it for fun. It means something entirely different when you do.”

I smiled at the passion coming from his voice. My fingers drifted from his hair to his neck and to his shoulder. I wanted to keep touching him, but I rested my hand against his side. “Have you always read books?”

“No,” he muttered. “It’s more of a recent thing. Have you ever read one out loud?”

“No. Not since I was a kid, I guess.”

“You should try it sometime. The story sounds different. I think it means a little more when you speak the words, when you hear them.”

“Maybe you could read one to me sometime?” The comfortable words slipped out of my lips, and I braced myself for his reaction.

“Okay.”

“You would?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “When I feel better, I’ll read you
Emma
.”

I smiled. “That wouldn’t be weird at all.”

“Have you read it?”

“No.” I laughed. “But I saw the Gwyneth Paltrow movie.”

“That doesn’t count. And I haven’t read it, so it would be a first for me too.”

Reaching over to his nightstand, I pulled
Call of the Wild
over to us. “How about I read to you tonight?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. I glanced down to where Wyatt was resting in my lap. His eyes were heavy, but open and full of sadness as he muttered, “Okay.”

I opened the book. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I won’t.” His answer was serious without a hint of laughter.

My voice came out soft at first, picking up where he’d left off at the turned-up page on chapter eight. I was nervous reading to Wyatt. It was strange speaking the words into the open air of the room. “How am I doing?”

“Your voice is nice. I like it.”

The warmth spread through my heart, hearing the rare compliment. As I turned through the pages, I forgot how my voice sounded as I got caught up in the story.

Wyatt drifted in and out of sleep as I reached the end of the next chapter. I closed the book and put it back on the nightstand. My fingers found their way back into his hair. I brushed a few strands off his forehead.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he whispered as his warm breath drifted across my legs. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that. Everyone deserves to be taken care of when they are sick.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You just have a hard time letting someone else handle things.”

“Maybe so.” Wyatt said the words, but I didn’t believe he meant them.

Turning off the lamp on his dresser, the room was flooded with the moonlight and shadows. I lifted his head from my lap, placing it on his pillow. I scooted down so I was even with him. Lying on my side, I stared into his green eyes. My lips were just a few inches from his soft ones. “What’s your favorite Stephen King book? You haven’t mentioned any, but you said he was your favorite.”